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I was an emotionally charged woman as well—passionate—just with a little better grasp on how to deal with it, and music was my outlet. It was my sanctuary where I could bleed, get angry, or hurt, without consequence.
Everyone, at some point in their life, breathes and grieves through song, but for me, it was daily therapy.
Those songs didn’t judge or tell me I was a fool for feeling the way I did. They told me they were with me. It was how I balanced my life and my passion.
But music was loyal and stayed with me, my constant, my comfort, and, at times, my enabler.
That’s the thing about intimacy and truly knowing the person you’re with. They always know when something’s off, no matter how casually you try to sweep your unease away. They know. It’s their job, because in the song of your life, they are the ones listening. It’s when they stop that you need to worry.
“Living for a man is the quickest way to get lost. And the reality of coming up empty-handed when it doesn’t work out. Fuck that. It’s a nightmare. I learned my lesson.
The music had led me back to him, solidifying us, and I would forever follow. He was my song, my soul, my everything, and his love had propelled me forward into the woman I wanted to be. And that woman would burn out with the man who was made to keep her warm.
