Poem: The Delicacy

My poems often tell a story of self-actualization and awakening.

They are raw because they begin in the heat of a moment—born from an emotion that demands to be felt. I write as the feeling rises, unfiltered and honest. But emotions are like tides: they surge, they recede, they change. That’s why I never share my poems in real time. I need space to breathe, to reflect—not just on what I wrote, but on why those words came to life.

The Delicacy was born from fear. Not the kind that paralyzes, but the kind that whispers questions you’re not ready to answer. Dating is hard—not because people are impossible, but because intimacy asks for more than comfort. It asks for vulnerability, for growth, for expansion beyond the edges of who you thought you were. A natural trauma response to dating is when we run into the opposite direction from what we are currently in. "My last partner was mean, so I want my new person to be kind" or "My last partner was broke. This time, I want a man to take care of me." It's natural thing we do. Sometimes we do it without even realizing. We stay in situations for so long, the unfamiliar feels refreshing, intoxicating. 

I went through a period in my life where.I lost sight of what intimacy was. Better yet, what intimacy meant for me. I always just held a standard of what the expectation of what intimacy should be. We all have our own definitions of what fulfills us in this concept.By my standards:

Intimacy is the shared state where safety becomes spacious enough for bliss to arise, and presence becomes deep enough to feel euphoric.

It’s the moment two (or more) inner worlds rest without armor—where being seen doesn’t cost you your nervous system, and being known feels like expansion rather than risk. Safety is the ground: consent, attunement, and trust that nothing must be performed or defended. From that ground, bliss emerges as ease—softness, warmth, a quiet pleasure in simply being together. Euphoria appears not as intensity alone, but as resonance: when emotions, bodies, or attention synchronize and create a feeling larger than the individuals involved.

Intimacy isn’t defined by proximity, touch, or duration. It’s defined by mutual openness held gently—the ability to stay present with truth, sensation, and vulnerability while feeling protected and welcomed. In that space, joy doesn’t have to be chased; it naturally rises.

But intimacy is not only something shared between two people. It can also be cultivated within yourself.

My journey through singleness and celibacy has taught me one essential truth: the only way to share intimacy authentically with someone else is to first feel comfortable sharing intimacy with yourself. But how can that be possible if you are

1. unsure of what true intimacy feels like for you, and

2. uncomfortable allowing yourself to experience that sensation on your own?

And before closed-mindedness reduces this conversation to physical touch or sex, let me be clear: sex does not define intimacy. It is simply one expression of it. Not all intimacy is sexual.

A moment of intimacy might look like sitting with your lover beside a waterfall in a rainforest, surrounded by mist and sound and stillness. A moment of intimacy with yourself might look exactly the same—sitting alone at that waterfall, watching the rain fall freely, listening to birds fly boldly across the sky, fully present with yourself.

A moment of intimacy with your partner can be a quiet car ride, no conversation needed, just R&B playing softly as both souls exhale. That same intimacy can exist within yourself as you drive alone, reflecting on your growth, your resilience, your goals.

Through this journey, I’ve learned the true power of empathy—and how to use it to restore my mind, body, and soul. I believe that partnership is about sharing moments of intimacy with one another: allowing each person to open their window and say, “This is what intimacy means to me.”

When two people are willing to share their personal language of intimacy with each other, it becomes something sacred. A gentle exchange. A mutual honoring of inner worlds. It is the source from which compassion, empathy, and understanding are born.

But this level of intimacy should not be entered prematurely. It requires time, reflection, exploration, and—most importantly—boundaries. When intimacy intensifies too quickly, it can give rise to delusion, misconception, and premature attachment. Most people do not experience this depth of vulnerability on a regular basis, so when they receive it, it can feel intoxicating—“almost like a drug,” as someone once described it. And addiction is not limited to chemical substances. When vulnerability is not shared mutually, one person can become energetically depleted while the other feels recharged.

I’ve been referred to as a delicacy before. When I first heard it, I took it as a compliment—after all, a delicacy is rare, desirable, something meant to be savored. That sounds beautiful, doesn’t it? Especially after a woman has endured emotional neglect and/or abuse. At first, being treated as a delicacy feels like being adored, chosen, and deeply appreciated. And truthfully, many women long to feel that way. But as I’ve learned, there are drawbacks to that framing.

I am able to share this poem now, because I have taken time to reflect and take accountability for my self-limiting beliefs. This is no longer a worry or a concept that triggers my fight-or-flight response. I would not say that I am fully healed in this aspect. But the level awareness I now have because of it has helped shaped my new reality - one built with time, reflection, exploration, and—most importantly—boundaries.I am simply blessed and grateful to be able to move forward, one step at a time, allowing myself the grace to figure it out day by day.