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the ambivalence of love
And when the ripples of this soft night unspools itself between my tired knees, I forgive myself for wanting closeness. To feel the kerosene touch of someone, turning my limbs into blue-violet flames.
Should I preface a needed acknowledgement at this juncture?
A short story perhaps, why I chose to hide myself in a drawer for years and not be ebbed away by the salacious inferno I used to bathe in.
The girl I once was, was a book collector. Each book she finds, she highlighted and dog-eared pages of people and store them in a trove next to her cerebellum. And oh, how wonderful they were—beautiful, sweet and chaotic. She would fashion their ideals into her skin, and cut parts of her to match their liking. But as every book ends, she'd only gain bruising papercuts and half-hearted satiation from that momentary linger they provide her.
So, I rose from that wreackage— distant, observant and cautious.
I want companionship. I want tired bones resting beside my ribcage after the splintered euphoria had descended, and we still have eyes hungry for soul touching. I want the merriment of just being in a room and not be swayed by forced vanity or polite veneers. I want the competitive streak of wanting to out-happy or out-silly the other for the other. I want the soul: their youth, their laughter, their sorrow, their ubiquitous imprint on me, regardless if I'm dolled up or just with a paper bag on my face.
I'm tired of chasing metaphors to sleep to, and collect trinkets from posthumous pseudo relationships.
I don't need rings, a congregation or vinegared paper from the Lord to justify such a find. I'll do the finding myself, in my own terms. In fact, I don't need it. On some days, I just need a paired soul, echoing every whisper I dared not say out loud—back at me, to me, for me.
And I'll know it, because my body would answer back, in simple silk textured words–I'm home, finally.
But not just yet, not when the owls hoot along with my weary heart and sleep deprived mind.
I'd settle comfortably being alone than have another 'never mind '.
Should I preface a needed acknowledgement at this juncture?
A short story perhaps, why I chose to hide myself in a drawer for years and not be ebbed away by the salacious inferno I used to bathe in.
The girl I once was, was a book collector. Each book she finds, she highlighted and dog-eared pages of people and store them in a trove next to her cerebellum. And oh, how wonderful they were—beautiful, sweet and chaotic. She would fashion their ideals into her skin, and cut parts of her to match their liking. But as every book ends, she'd only gain bruising papercuts and half-hearted satiation from that momentary linger they provide her.
So, I rose from that wreackage— distant, observant and cautious.
I want companionship. I want tired bones resting beside my ribcage after the splintered euphoria had descended, and we still have eyes hungry for soul touching. I want the merriment of just being in a room and not be swayed by forced vanity or polite veneers. I want the competitive streak of wanting to out-happy or out-silly the other for the other. I want the soul: their youth, their laughter, their sorrow, their ubiquitous imprint on me, regardless if I'm dolled up or just with a paper bag on my face.
I'm tired of chasing metaphors to sleep to, and collect trinkets from posthumous pseudo relationships.
I don't need rings, a congregation or vinegared paper from the Lord to justify such a find. I'll do the finding myself, in my own terms. In fact, I don't need it. On some days, I just need a paired soul, echoing every whisper I dared not say out loud—back at me, to me, for me.
And I'll know it, because my body would answer back, in simple silk textured words–I'm home, finally.
But not just yet, not when the owls hoot along with my weary heart and sleep deprived mind.
I'd settle comfortably being alone than have another 'never mind '.
