I've always been attracted to the fairy tale of wild, free love — soul-baring to strangers, easy trust, the piety of unrequited romance. I curved a wide path around prickly pear people with their high fences and scabbed-over grudges. I fancied myself fearless for the risks I took, and clairvoyant for the beauty I saw in each shy story I coaxed into the open.
But my earth was scorched with hidden disappointment until I admitted my overestimation of the human heart's capacity.
I can love deeply, but not widely.
I can love sincerely, but not purely.
And I cannot fall in love alone.
I don't share my [precious, dangerous] self so freely now. I've planted protective hedges and few are entrusted with the little brass key to my garden door.
Only God can love with an infinite love. I must learn to conserve my dwindling reserves:
A river, not a flood.
A pulse, not a slit wrist.