I’m frightened by the sensitivity of my emotions. They respond to their own expectations: my feelings are no better than unbridled beasts who refuse to be tamed. Reason is not beyond them; they knowingly disregard it— at my expense. They thrash against the walls of my heart, they tear at the tissue of my weakest organ/ I cannot quell them.

So I let them be.

But like any wound, I cannot ignore their work. And so I think, and I think, and then I think some more. They demand such attention you see, and it is all I can do to satisfy them. Slowly, uncontrollably, they begin to consume me. I ask myself, ‘Is it wrong to desire you?’ In my colored framework, probably not. But I would be a liar to uphold this as the greatest complication. All other variables considered, I ask myself the question again. This time, the answer is yes, and it is blaringly so.

Though the traditional constructs of formality are familiar to me, conventions hold little agency in managing my unrequited feelings. Suppression is often transitory; if my emotions ever cross the threshold of propriety, I’m afraid I will unleash a stream of raw, unregulated passion—a burst of sensations that will leave me empty. In the aftermath, what else would I have to offer?

-raine
03-11-11