My Raw Unscripted Life

The heart is a chemist with a crowded shelf,
Mixing the versions we hold of ourselves.
Sometimes the beaker overflows with heat,
And we mistake the chaos for something sweet.

But anxious chemistry is a jagged line,
Where “will they?” and “won’t they?” intertwine.
A fever of waiting, a stomach in knots,
Drowning in silence and over-read thoughts.
It feels like a fire, it feels like a soul,
But it’s only the hunger to finally feel whole.

Then sexual chemistry rises like a tide,
A magnetic rhythm we can’t push aside.
Electric and heavy, a physical grace,
A map that we draw on a stranger’s face.
It’s the heat of the moment, the pulse in the dark,
A beautiful, blinding, and brief little spark.

But then there is secure chemistry—the gift of rest,
The one that the nervous system likes the best.
No alarms in the chest, no ghosts in the head,
Just the ease of the words that are actually said.
It isn’t a lightning bolt striking a tree;
It’s the way that the river flows into the sea.

It’s the “warm, not exciting” that catches us cold,
Because we were taught that the glitz was the gold.
But the shoulder that drops and the breath that slows down
Is the only solid ground that can ever be found.