Someone tell me it’s going to get better.
The matters of my heart are full. I’m losing hold of feelings I’ve kept so deeply hidden under lock and key. I worry someday soon I’ll burst at the seams, embarrassed at what I’m sure would spill out.
At what age do you differentiate a crush from lust or lust from unattainable love? The older I get, the more I realize how much I just don’t know. That the pain of loneliness won’t be magically cured, that friendships are complex, that love languages are wildly diverse.
The fluidity of sexuality continues to fascinate and frustrate.
Why can’t I have what (who) I want?