|
I never promised you the world But you expect it from me anyway And when I inevitably fail to deliver Well- -I can’t stand the way you look at me Like it’s so difficult to find something in me to love I wish this was the angsty teen in me talking but You’ve told me that much yourself It seems that your love was not meant for someone like me When you said you wanted a daughter, I don’t think you meant someone like me Once You said that my biggest flaw was that I talk Without a care of who’s listening. All I’ve ever wanted was for you to listen I’m one wrong word away from
taking a vow of silence Profound joy...
The first feel Holding and touching A newborn baby's skin. Caring... Hugging a friend. Meaning... Hearty handshakes A pat on the back. Intimacy... Caressing a lover's body. Love... An unforgettable wedding day kiss. For 6 months last year
I stopped wearing a bra. After 11 years of wearing a bra almost every single day, I starting pulling my shirts and dresses over a completely bare upper half: No lifting, uncomfortable straps. For 6 months I did this. Some context? I was in a state of perpetual stress, and wanted to test a theory: That wildness was a quality that I could inject into a personality that was otherwise over-analytic and list-obsessed. My spirit was searching. Trigger warning: mentions of r*pe, domestic violence, manipulation
I’d met her at the beginning of Summer, when the air was hot and full of woodsmoke and bonfires, and the skies and the days stretched out as long and as endless as each other. She was a catalogue of contradiction - rebellious and straight-laced, fearless as well as frightened, a woman who seemed to be riding the back of the world, holding on with one hand, and to her, I was a small cup, held beneath Niagara. It happened all at once, the way things that grow in the heat of summer often do. I love you’s were whispered, half-drunk as the sunset. Days upon days were spun together, drifted like dandelion wishes and half-made plans were promised, one after another, after another… All filled with her. She told me she would give me the world. She would make something of me. She pointed out the holes in my patchwork skirt and the rips in my dungarees, she took me to clothes shops, took away my bracelets and stripped me to the skin in a sweaty changing room with fluorescent lighting, dressed me in sensible jeans and plain white tops, and bought me two of each while I laughed at the thought of a “girlfriend uniform”. I searched for solidarity for women
And was greeted with Hundreds of perfume ads How to be attractive to the male gaze Effervescent clothes shops Even “It is of vital importance that women are beautiful” I was confused And altogether disappointed Since when did appearance and appealing to men Have anything to do With the solidarity Amongst women When the soft wind brushes my face,
I watch it settle on my mother's hair, rustles it, blows up a handful before creating a tremulous hair quake; My mother’s right-hand hits her neck, scrapes through her bunch of hair, grabs a sheath between her fingers, sinking her short fingernails into them, before she stares at me with a smile. I watch her with thickening tears, how she sobs when she asks my father permission to visit the local hairdresser. In fleeting moments, beauty gleams,
A glimpse of dreams, like whispered streams. A fleeting touch of nature's art, A symphony that fills the heart. A sunbeam dancing through the trees, Unveiling life with graceful ease. The world revealed in shades so fine, A glimpse of the divine design. Eyes meet eyes in a crowded place, A fleeting smile, a hint of grace. Connections made in fleeting chance, A dance of souls in life's expanse. |