I wanted you
I took what I wanted
Until my flesh
In the moment
Was satisfied
Not realizing
All the moments after
My heart would turn against me
Was it all the more sweeter
Because it was stolen
Did it make our hearts race faster
Because it was forbidden
Did it illuminate the moment
Only because it was illicit?
I had a thorn in my flesh
Testing me
Over time
I was defeated
The pain reminds me
Every day
The scar might fade
But might never be erased
I have an RBF. Apparently. Resting bitch face. I remember reading an article once on the every day lives of men and women. Women are expected to smile more and look pleasant. I have observed this in the workplace too. If a woman doesn’t smile often she is deemed miserable. But the same does not apply to her male colleagues. I have never been able to wear a facade. If I’m happy,I look happy. If I’m sad, I look sad. Stressed, looked stressed. Etc. My RBF doesn’t help though. Sometimes I am feeling just fine, but because I’m not smiling, I have a demeanor that may keep others at a distance. I don’t mean to though!
Here’s me looking happy 🙂
I disagree with anyone who says licorice tastes good. Because licorice does not taste good. There is no part of licorice that tastes good. In any shape, size or form. I haven’t yet figured out why licorice is actually produced in the first place. And why anyone would want to eat it? It doesn’t look good or appetizing either, resembling something like a car tyre. And who wants to eat their car tyre? So where would the appeal even lie?
Our words are our signature –
How delicately they are strung
Like chains across a room
Either binding to take captive
Or as fairy lights strung joyfully
Each story carrying the mark
Of its maker hiding nothing
As I felt them
So I wrote them –
Those brief
So fleeting
Feelings
Floating
Emoting
Flying
Within,
Around me.
Before they burst
I captured them.
My current pile of unfinished books consists of a Dale Carnegie classic “How to Stop Worrying and Start Living”, a Rumi poetry book gifted to me by my beautiful friend nia, and below that “All the Light We Cannot See” by Anthony Doerr. Non-fiction, poetry and fiction all stacked in a pile next to my bed. Happiness is…
I say the words I shouldn’t say
I do the things I shouldn’t do
But through it all, my feelings show
When I fall asleep and wake up blue
Your image fills my heart and mind
I wait to speak, to tell you so
Wish you were here, I’m missing you
