It is easier to ask them to hate me than to risk having someone love me. It is easier to be abandoned; the thing I am used to, molded from, stay inside, than to risk coming out of that shell and be handed love. What do I do with this? How do I run? I don’t know the ways I have let myself be loved, but they are only recent. They are only few.
It is uncomfortable in the light, being held. It is my great terror. Love is my great terrorist.