Thirteen years ago, when I fell in love with somebody for the first time—the kind of love which lives solely in the heart, which gives me nothing but poetry, the kind that fills every vessel until when I looked into you I looked into me—when I fell in love for the first time, I still believed I could be too intense. The world teaches women and romantics to bury that love, to keep it at a surface level. I held on for that belief for the next ten years and it wasn't until I found myself, that I returned to myself. I will never again silence my own words.
At the age of eighteen, I penned a letter adorned with the unspeakable depths of my emotions, for I sensed him slipping away, transforming into something unfamiliar.
Only the words I had written for him no longer found him, the love I felt I felt for someone who had departed from the world, who had become a stranger. I wrote three novels filled with these words.
I've returned to myself. I shall never again conceal my writings or shroud them in secrecy born out of shame. Shame for daring to feel love, of all things! How is it that we bear no shame for our hatred or our anger, yet we confine love, leaving it with nowhere to call home?