selling my soul
I nuzzled the warm hand that reached for me
Melted into that touch
Utterly pliant, drifting away
With the stroking of soft fingers
With a palm’s gentle caress
With the warm press of a body
Providing the comfort I rejected for so long
Helpless but to fall away into a liminal space
Where I am small once again
And that touch feels like an invitation,
Something to want
Rather than an expectation,
Something I must need
But that hand does not come freely
It cradles the cruel rosebud of romance inside
The other hand reaching to receive my own
A transaction I was willing to make
If only to lean into that hand
Let it take that inane buzzing from my skin
I thought it was a price worth paying,
A sweet and innocent price I secretly begged for all my life
Only to find I did not have my own rosebud to give
But a thorned ivy left unwatered,
A drying husk of withering leaves
And so I made a rosebud of myself,
Of my being,
Making myself into something I am not
Surrendering the shape of me
To grasp at that tender anchor to reality
An anchor that I didn’t realize weighed infinite tons
Until it dragged me under to the deep
Where I silently drowned
Until I was forced to come up for air
And breathe in the reality of my dried, thorny ivy shape
And cut apart the hand that reached
———
Posted Jun 25, 2026, 4:23 AM UTC