By F Lalthanliana ( t.f. )
Even knowing your hands
Might one day shape my confessions into sharp edges,
I choose to lay my soul bare
A map of scars and stories,
Each vein a path only you could trace.
The danger is not the point.
It is the trust I offer,
fragile and trembling,
Like a bird in an open palm.
If your grip tightens,
If your eyes harden,
I will know what becomes of vulnerability
That it can be a wound,
But it can also be freedom,
A quiet surrender to what we are:
Two people, armed with everything
And nothing at all.
Even with your hands as blades,
I would still disarm myself before you.
What is love, if not the chance
To be destroyed
And still be willing to build again?
By F Lalthanliana ( t.f. )
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