There are some people in your life that shelter you from the worst of storms, and then, there are some people who throw you into an ocean of insecurities to drown.

But what happens if that one person who you hope safeguards you makes you follow him into a tornado and vanishes himself?

We quibble often, like most lovers do. We pick on each other, mock each other. Love is majorly about being able to be honest with each other. In each other’s arms, you can merely remain, merely exist and yet your existence will have more fulfillment than a life spent in solidarity.

You have always been my safe harbor. The midwife to a pregnant mother. The young girl who buys biscuits and feeds the starving dog every night. The little chick bursting through the egg-shell looking at its mother to nurture her. You have been everything I have always wanted.

But as we tiff at each other, you neglect my emotions and ask me this, “How does it feel to be that fragile that mere words hurt you?” Well, let me tell you this.

It feels terrible to be that sensitive to the banter of those around you. I have spent a lifetime feeling inadequate. My childhood was spent being bullied for the way I dressed or spoke or acted. I spent my adolescence being called a slut for expressing my sexuality or wanting attention. I spent years of my womanhood being abused. My body that deserved to be worshiped as a temple was spat on. There were always hordes of women more beautiful than I was, and that was pointed out to me often enough for me to fall in love with them myself.

It feels terrible to depend on you for reassurance. I crave for your touch to tell me you find me attractive. I crave for your text to tell me I cross your mind. I crave for your phone call to stop me from crying. Is it that hard to reach out to a woman you call your own, knowing she is completely broken by something you may have done?

But, it is my fault. You are preparing me for battle. You are teaching me that the world doesn’t care about my woes, and neither do you. I mustn’t long for you like a wilting sunflower. I must not let love or even sadness overwhelm me like a trembling wave and must embrace my inadequacies.

Yes, I am not beautiful. I am ugly and broken and cracked. Yes, you may not find me attractive or want to make love to me or even f*** me in the back alley. Yes, I am fat and I have every reason to pick on my hair or fuss over my clothes because no materialistic garment can hide the filth that my skin depicts.

But it is alright. I may have my flaws, but I am resilient. I love and love and I love till my heart aches poetry. You break me down and I will write you a sonnet. You may discard my verses like your morning dump, but I will write you letters until the day my poetry breaks through your iron-clad chest. I will break through to you, because darling, I cannot let you go.

I am in love. People in love march across streets like they are on a battlefield with a glow on their face and a swing to their hips, and I stagger after them. Consumed by self-doubt and misery, I dance around with a cigarette and a note-pad. Trying to imitate their smile or their romance. Trying to act, walk, talk or dress like them.

I am a f***-up. People are fascinated by broken people, but we are temporary to most. A challenge to conquer, a body to experiment. I have neither a soul nor a pretty face. But alas, I am a martyr for I have given up my life chasing after love. Love eludes me, yet transforms me.

Do you know how it feels to be so fragile that mere words hurt you?

Ask me, I do.