I could just burst, and perhaps I might. Like a good blackberry in the August heat. Perhaps I need not spill my ripened truths onto anything, but out into the open. I feel like could rush, like a charged wave, if only just to end upon a craggy shore. My skin burns with the anticipation, like it does on an unfiltered September day, I’m willing it to eat me alive.

Perhaps I should just hold it. Maybe it’s an energy that needs no escape. I’ll let it rattle around inside me like a threat, I’ll stiffen it’s nuclear power in moments of the day when I feel the cold. I wonder if this is what others do instead of martyring their passions at another’s feet. If they hoard this feeling until they nearly burst, like a good blackberry in the summer heat.

I worry that the attentions of my ravenous energy are needed, that they might warm you in lieu of overheating me. But I have seen how hot they burn. I’m finding a place within myself that can tame them, that knows they are just for me. I trust that now that I’ve swallowed them whole, they’ll beam out of me in the exposing way that they do. That you’ll feel the warmth as if it exudes through me. That little more needs to be said. And I hope that I don’t rupture, like a grape under your teeth, in the calamity of all this goodness.

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