My Heart Is A Weapon

I thought love was one of the last unalloyed Good things.

Men are by default unwanted in any particular space. I must always have a justification for my presence. What do I bring that is of value? How does that offset against the costs I impose? My existence is an exercise in trade offs.

I feel love easily. I love reflecting that back to people. It's so warm and elevating, and it comes with no downsides. Who doesn't love this feeling? I thought it was a solid "pro-column" trait.

I expect everything to end. Making peace with this and finding joy in the ephemeral while it is still here is the only possible way for me to live sanely. I try to guard against callousness, I put serious effort into withdrawing gently and remaining close. I disclose what I can offer beforehand.

I have discovered this is not enough. When I offered an exchange of love, for many people they needed far more than I could actually give. Partial fulfillment was worse than a full rejection early on would have been.

But now I know. My heart is not like music and cuddles and fun and chocolate. It gets imbedded in the flesh. The body grows over it to encompass it. Taking it back, even for a while, comes with costs. It leaves a bleeding wound behind. It can ruin people, no matter how many precautions were taken.

My heart is a weapon, all sharp points and bladed edges. To let it tumble about, swinging with every movement, is gross negligence. I have to interrogate anyone I wish to share it with. I have to ensure they have the constitution and willingness to weather a piercing, a potential mauling. I can't trust their words. They don't know. Every interaction is a gamble, and the risks must be calculated first.

Now my heart is guarded, sheathed, strapped away. I feel I have one less reason to justify my existence somewhere. But I know that was a lie all along, and I'm finally just owning up to the truth.