They met me as one might meet a storm—cautiously, eyes scanning the sky for signs, bracing for the unknown. I do not unfold gently. I arrive in bursts and crescendos, my words not always palatable, my affections rarely tame.

My love is not the kind found in tidy verses or love songs that rhyme. It is jagged and honest, stitched with longing and fire. It demands presence. It asks you not to sip but to drown a little, to forget the taste of tepid things.

I have learned that I am an acquired taste—the kind that startles at first, then lingers unexpectedly. You either crave me or recoil. And I no longer soften myself to fit tongues that flinch.

Because not everyone can dance with the heat of my silence, or drink from the well of my unspoken dreams. Not everyone can rest easy beside the flicker of my restlessness.

To love me is to handle madness with reverence. The beautiful, roaring kind—the kind that builds kingdoms of feeling and tears down facades with a single glance.

And if you cannot… that’s alright.

I was never meant to be easy. ❤️

©️ Beatriz Esmer