I’m tired of feeling alone in my thinking. I know I’m not. Alone, that is.

But some days I can’t shake the solitude. Like I’m thinking in ways that are inconvenient for people so they won’t even try to join me.

Why is it weird to talk about death? Genuinely. Why are there things that we avoid because they are sensitive topics? That’s the point. And if you don’t feel safe/comfortable enough to be sensitive/vulnerable then that’s the first thing we should address.

AND YES, WE. We should address when someone in our space doesn’t feel safe to be vulnerable because WE are implicated in that.

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I think about death every day. How others have died. Who’s life-force was extinguished for my clothes, food, home, roads, education.

I think about rape often. The ways our society creates and violates the other. The way the other is constructed through force, manipulation, and finally normalization.

I think about neglect frequently. Children left to fend for themselves, learning the world’s language through abandonment.

It’s not that I can’t love. That I can’t talk or write about love.

A hug from a friend, a laugh across the room, a nap on a warm patch of grass.

But why can’t I talk about the other stuff too?

I think my childhood was two upset people blaming me for talking about upsetting things when there was no precedent for how to talk about love.

So forgive me for not knowing the language of love. I am trying my best to learn, I can promise you that.

Please try to learn the language of death. For me. If you can.