Hey, boy. Hey.

I'm scared to say that I love you. I'm scared of all the little things that could go wrong, and the things I could lose. I'm scared of the things I could gain - but mostly I'm scared of being embarrassed. In fact -

I'm embarrassed.

Let's be honest: I'm just all-around inside/outside embarrassed. I'm embarrassed of the way my heart moves, or that part of my brain I like to call "my heart" - it's way down in the bottom and way up at the top, and it leaks around the sides and gets gooey in the cracks. I'm embarrassed of the little nosey-snuggle things it wants me to do to you, and the stubbornness, and the silly way it laughs. I'm embarrassed, because it thinks you think that I think too much. Too little.

I'm embarrassed.

I'm not even sure you could handle that part of me. I think it's too fat, too sweaty, too fuzzy and sticky. It's got too many tongues, not enough fingers, and two big, rosy cheeks that would smother a cute little face like yours. I think it probably wants to smother your face. It wants to lick you, and tickle you, and poke at your belly. It wants to walk up behind you while you're eating your breakfast and put its head on your shoulder, so it can see what you're eating. Maybe you'll feed it some yogurt. I think it really hopes you will.

It probably doesn't want to hold your hand in public, although it might. It definitely doesn't want to go down on you in a movie theater.

I'm embarrassed.

I have a part that doesn't get to see daylight very much. It could be my own fault, and it could be yours - do you have to be so intimidating? It keeps trying to come out and play, but it's scared of the big boys and the bullies - it thinks you might be one. It's scared of "No," and "Maybe," and "I don't think so." It's scared of rejection.

I don't know all the things it would do if it got out. It might go shopping, but I don't think so. It would probably snuggle up with you and watch a movie, but I don't think you would let it. It would certainly stare at strangers from across the room, and forget to file its tax returns, and eat its own boogers. On Saturdays it would dress up as Charlie Chaplin and dance with jiggaboos in local Irish pubs, and on Sunday it would go to church as Hitler so it wouldn't have to shave. It would keep both costumes clean and pressed. Shoulder pads on Sunday.

I'm embarrassed.

It wants you to know all these things and more, but it can't seem to make me tell you. It wants you to love, and be loved, and it's jealous enough to want me to be the loved and the lover - but I'm scared of it. I'm scared of it, I'm scared of my sticky-fluffy part - and that's why I'm embarrassed.

But I do think you'd like him. And he'd like you.