The fear of love lives in stomach, in private.
Discovered, it's pulsing
under my hand.
And somehow my heart, while still working, is quiet,
the pulse has just moved,
as if on demand.
But love isn't prison. Why being deeply timid?
Why having this blinding, frustrating exhaustion,
this havoc?
Who taught me the habit to limit?
When did it become an unhealthy proportion?
When did I forget how to love – myself –
in all?
Purifying, and healing, inspiring,
fulfilling, and gainful –
such love overwhelms.
I want to recall.
Stomach's sense: will be painful.
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Soundrack: "Driving In Nails" by Archive