Negesti Kaudo

I had therapy today & among my successes we danced around the topic of vulnerability, so much so that my therapist made a face when I stated I’m not good at communicating with people I’m attracted to & she makes another face when I say, but I already know how the conversation will end which I do, but I don’t, but I do: each man is a different version of the last & she counters you don’t know the future; but I do, & I don’t, & I could, but I won’t & by could, I don’t mean know the future, but I mean say all the things I’ve swallowed the minute I tasted them on my tongue: like falling in love with her almost killed me because I forgot how to be alone; like I returned from the land of fire & ice & only wanted to invite him into my bed; like everything I deserve, I am afraid of — & my therapist knows, she breathes life into the word fear hoping the spark will catch & I perform acrobatics with synonyms to stomp it out. I told you, it’s a dance. & she says, what if your fear is preventing you from getting what you want? Then I don’t need it, pinkies high. But you want it? & my lover doesn’t believe in fate either — I can hear it in each meticulous pause, each breath to choose words, every gritted response. & by it, I mean the question of me: am I wanted, am I needed, am I deserving, am I worth it? every pregnant silence an echo chamber of my own insecurities. & my therapist says, you haven’t been vulnerable, which is a statement, not a question or suggestion. & I remember being vulnerable once, a groundhog searching for her shadow — for a few brief minutes it wasn’t there — & vulnerability has gotten me nowhere but disappointed. & I think about how once I put it all on the line for a boy who didn’t deserve it or want it but used me up before I could take myself back. & how self-preservation has kept me safe through the bleakest of seasons. & how I avoid eye contact because I might be seen, all the performative layers pulled back until my core can be held tenderly by a gaze that has been dreaming of this level of exposure. But I am only vulnerable in two places: the page and my bed.