What things could look like

This is, as you might guess, another story of a boy.

Yet another story.

Yet another boy.

A story of the first online-dating site.

A story of the first “gringo”.

A story of the first homemade garlic bread.

A story of the first time caring first.

A story of the first — this is TMI, okay, I will tell you later.

A story of the first ride

with no brakes.

With no net. No wall. No catch. No warranty. No abuse. No instructional manual. No exit strategy. No pretense. No pelvic pain. No holding back. No feelings. No, wait.

FEELINGS.

A story with a ticket home. My second home.

A story of how I found a third home.

A story of letting go.

A story of novelty. Of novelties (get it? you probably do). Of beginnings.

Of endings that didn’t know they were endings.

A story that had no fucking clue it was a story.

A story that forgot there was a blog waiting for another boy. Another story. Another home. Another road to hit.

A story of a boy. Fun boy, smart boy. Cute boy from upstate, somewhere I had never heard of.

Maybe that was why.

The boy who asks before going forward. The boy who has toys. The boy who watches “The Sweetest Thing” on a second date while his skin melts. The boy who says “fucking” and not “making love”, “pussy” and not “down there”. The boy who uses words. Pretty words. All the words. The boy who is much less afraid than I am.

The boy who

makes cuddling

seem alright.

Hell,

even desirable.

Andnotatallthreateningornauseatingorclaustrophobia-triggeringorcheesyoranythingmorethankeepingwarmandtogetherandjustfuckingcuddling, itsnotabigdeal. Jesus.

The boy who made me.

(gasp) like spooning.

And, on occasion, even mornings.

(I know. What the fuck.)

The boy who made me like feeling vulnerable

like the world was going to end

if I hung up the phone,

if I did not come again,

if I did not let him know.

Another story of a boy.

But really, a story about me.

Because I

I am selfish. It is all about me

Me, me, me.

I am a selfish asshole sometimes.

And a control-freak, as I have been told.

And a rusty emotional rollercoaster that needs some damn maintenance,

by the way.

Also a scared little child with too many fences left to jump.

Also a person. A girl. A selfish person who realized how selfless she could be. A control freak who was okay with losing control. A rollercoaster that seemed to have her shit sort of together for once.

A scared little girl who tends to

run whenever she feels fire

scream whenever a bomb drops

hide behind every shiny new thing

shiny new boy

shiny new escape plan

shiny new ticket home

A scared little girl who is not that scared anymore,

Who feels like jumping

big

jumps.

Another story of this girl

of fences I jumped.

Walls I tore down.

A better idea

of what I want,

of roads to get there.

A better idea of what one can feel

What things could look like

If I just don’t hit the brakes.

If I can just

Not. hit. the. brakes.

Even if I don’t have a plane to catch.

 

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