That's Not Safe

They teach you to lock your doors, to label everything fragile before it’s touched, to flinch from heat, to never trust the flame— as if safety were a kind of virtue. But love asks for the opposite. It hands you a blade and says, Now offer them your throat. It promises no armour. Only presence. You step inside anyway, barefoot, carrying nothing but your name, knowing it could be dropped, scratched, or spoken like a weapon. And still, you stay— not because it’s safe, but because it’s real.