Before the Fire

Let me be honest—
I’d rather text you a thesis
than play emotional charades
just to keep it cute.

I’m not here for decoding.
I’m not a Rubik’s cube
or a mood ring.
I’m a walking, talking boundary
with hips, history,
and a WiFi connection strong enough
to stream my truth
in HD clarity.

Look—
I don’t do “maybe.”
I don’t do “figure it out.”
I do calendars, intentions,
and a full-bodied “yes”
with eye contact.

If I ask for clarity
and you respond with riddles,
just know:
I’ve got a PhD in walking away
before confusion becomes a lease.

Say it plain.
Need me? Want space?
Craving soup or solitude?
Be real. I can handle it.
What I can’t handle
is emotional smoke signals
from folks who claim to love me
but are scared of fire drills.

Let’s make it simple:
I want truth served hot,
with a side of awkward silence,
if that’s what it takes
to be real.

Because I’m done shape-shifting
into silence just to be liked.
I’m not an echo.
I’m not your therapist.
I’m not your mama’s shadow
in a skirt of compromise.

I’m a whole sermon
on self-worth.
A gospel of “say what you mean.”
An altar of,
“If you don’t know what you want,
please don’t come nibble
on my peace.”

So here’s the deal—
Tell me now,
before we fall into anything
that requires damage control,
ritual sage,
or a six-week digital detox.

Because the realest intimacy
ain’t in the sheets—
it’s in the words we dare to say
before the flame.

And if you can’t meet me there,
at the sacred edge of honesty—
then I’ll light my own candle,
pray my own peace,
and exit stage left
with my dignity intact
and my sense of humor
still sharp.

Now that’s healing.
Majestically—-

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