There's something I want to tell you. But words like "something" and "tell" leave too much ambiguity in the air for my taste. What is "something". And "tell" does that mean in passing. A gentle whisper before you fall asleep? Or does it mean to tell someone off. With anger and rage that comes from sitting in a church pew for too many Sundays as a kid. Leaving with just enough truth, but not enough experience to make sense of it all.

I want to drive it deep inside you and leave it there. It's halfway between a revelation and an addiction. One you ask for and one you don't, but it's the day after Christmas and no one is asking for details like that. What you seek isn't found in the details or the pieces of tinsel that fall on the living room floor each year.

You know that. You're a woman. A mother. Maybe even a wife. You wear each title with pride, but feel shame in how you're doing. Like an amazing pair of earrings that you can't stop wearing, even though the man that gave them to you never should have been allowed inside your bedroom. "A good...wouldn't ever do this", plays in your head. But that's the most basic of lies. A half truth stretched to cover that feeling that comes up late at night after everyone has gone to sleep.

This is different. It's the drip-drop of a sweating pipe. The nearly constant, but oddly timed splatter that takes you from far way to the present moment in an instant. And then the rush of fear. That it will interrupt your next thought. It's not a perfect 27 seconds apart and the pulse of the building changes as the sun shines in your window. That's the part that gets you. That keeps you on edge.

Everything built by men has the edges rounded off. The tired hands of a lumber jack with his felling axe holding the rounded handle between his thumb and pointer finger. Dark green pants made darker by the work rub against the handle. With time, it seems all edges disappear.

Her. A stay at home mom with a cast iron skillet on the stove. The rounded handle that narrows as it approaches the pan. The timer on the microwave beeps into the empty air, begging for resolution while in another room a child plays alone with toy blocks. Even the toys have their edges removed. Lesson learned from a young age, it seems.

You. The coffee has started to get cold. You can't help but feel that everything round was made for the hands of man. The coffee cup with its round shape proves this point. And then you touch your own body. Round. Made to be held. I took the long way around to tell you this. There's a risk you wouldn't read until the end. I'm willing to take that gamble on you.

Show up. Rough edges and rounded. Tell me the thing you desire most and leave all the details in. Blush when you message me. Feel pride and shame when you message me. Feel something. I'm not interested in rounding off your edges. Exposing them and making them sharp enough to be useful again. I didn't tell you about the axes edge. Sharp and shiny. That's what makes it useful.

I promised a revelation and an addiction. But consider this an invitation to reach out. Connect and give in to the adventure that awaits when you reply to strangers on the internet.

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