Warning Label

Do not date me.

I come with inconvenient features: a mind that remembers, a heart that means it, and standards that refuse to die quietly.

Do not date me if you enjoy half-truths, because I have a habit of dragging things into the light and asking them what they're doing there.

Do not date me if you need to be needed. I can carry my own groceries, fight my own battles, and survive my own lonely nights. A tragic flaw, apparently.

Do not date me if you're searching for someone to shrink themselves so you can feel tall. I spent too long learning my size to fold myself in half now.

Do not date me if loyalty frightens you. I love like an old dog: stubborn, unimpressed by excuses, and inclined to stay.

Do not date me if curiosity makes you nervous. I will ask questions. I will notice things. I will find the crack in the wall you hoped nobody would see.

Do not date me if you're looking for easy. I am not a weekend hobby, a temporary distraction, or a convenient empty space for you to occupy.

No, don't date me. Find someone softer. Someone quieter. Someone who mistakes silence for peace and distance for freedom.

As for me, I'll be over here, entirely too much: too honest, too loyal, too thoughtful, too alive. A terrible burden. The kind people spend years searching for, then panic when they finally find it.