The tender core of Cordelia Teal.

He lapped up all the spills, falling from my heart, leaking for my mouth like a sponge yielding it saturation. He lapped it up and the connection beamed through him like a sun split blessing for having sentiment sense.

I’m a fighter.

I am more fighter than artist.

More fighter than educator.

More fighter than female.

More fighter than human.

And when he laps up all undulating overflow of my soul, I want to fight to contain myself, want to fight by creating mountains to excuse the mess. I fight nothing but my own demons in his absences and I convince myself that exaggerated space is necessary protection. This is game I’ve played my whole life, a game of perpetual lose; a warrior’s scampering for cover, for freedom.

He walks around with his eyes lensed in beauty. And when he looks at me, swept in the formulas of aesthetics, I do not understand what he sees. When he looks at me and he says I am beautiful it is as if I engender the rules of design quivering with a pulse. I do not understand what he sees, only know that the moments he calls me beautiful, he relishes the acknowledgement; he radiates validation as if the discovery of beauty is the impetus of his existence.

I do not understand what he sees. I just have to trust what he sees.

And it is exactly that place that I am most weak.

And there it is again. The impulse to fight.

I want to fight to prove that I’m strong.