Ok.

He calls himself a poet and his favorite word is “ok”.

Here are my aches, my longings.

Ok.

Here is my softness, my most secret desire.

Ok.

Here is my heart, still beating, dripping red onto the ashen floor.

Ok.

Here is my soul, bared to no one before you, trembling, shaking, wounded.

Ok.

This is heavy, raw. This is delicate, fragile. This is the shape of what I feel deep in my bones.

Ok.

I am giving you something precious, sacred in its authenticity, tender in its need.

Ok.

Here is how you hurt me, you didn’t mean to, there was no malice, but you did.

Ok.

This is what I need to hear to feel whole, to feel safe, to feel seen.

Ok.

…ok.

Hey, are you ok? the poet asks me.