When I allow myself

There is a place where fear gives truce, a still point between roar and silence, where the engine slows down and the world falls silent just to hear what remains in me. It's not courage that's lacking, it's the shame of breaking myself beautifully, of giving in to parts that still bleed. I've stored up armor, I've practiced comfort in secret, I've learned to smile with my mouth, to cry in writing. I imagine someone arriving like a surefire way: unhurried, knowing things I didn't even know were dirty. Someone who doesn't ask for immediate fixes, just a presence, a hand that doesn't demand maps. I'm afraid of getting lost in the first encounters, of confusing warmth with false shelter. But what if allowing myself is just that: a small, unannounced step, a surrender that begins timidly? I want to reach a day where the summer of "loving" doesn't seem like a bomb, but a bridge I tread slowly. Where I breathe and don't need to prove anything, just be whole—pieces, pieces, poses, everything. Until then, I'll train my feet: revving the engine on rainy nights, writing verses that bring me back, drinking coffee like someone rehearsing the taste of calm, learning that allowing yourself is