metaphor is the way god gave poets a hall pass to scream in public without anyone calling security. but they're not reserved for poets. that’s like saying orgasms are only for porn stars. no. metaphors are how we survive the unbearable without numbing out. it’s the tattoo you get when you’re too scared to tell your father you wish he would call. it’s how the boy who grew up with belt bruises says “please just let me cry.” it turns “i miss you” into “there’s an empty chair in my chest and it still pulls itself up to the table waiting for your voice.” metaphors are for people who know that “i’m fine” is a crime scene and need a prettier way to draw chalk around the body. they’re for the ones who kiss like forgiveness and fuck like survival because no one ever taught them how to speak plainly without gagging on the weight of being understood. they let you hold the unbearable without breaking your fingers. metaphors are the hands that reach inside your ribcage and rearrange your heartbeat. that's why most people fear them because they require feeling before understanding. metaphor is memory’s favorite lingerie. it reveals without revealing. lets you see the curve of what can’t be seen. that’s why the best metaphors are erotic. not because they’re always about sex, but because they penetrate. they stir something. they touch the parts of you that textbooks can’t reach.