Unfinished
Heart hung upon the wall,
daggers flying. Splatter
stains of your blood. She
was supposed to be the one.
You hide it in a closet, tell
yourself that’s where it’ll
stay.
Shy smiles on a bench,
too little time spent
together. You convince
yourself that she is the one.
You persuade yourself into
love, tell yourself that
this time round, it will be alright.
Quiet nights spent with
stained pillows, the
fountains don’t stop for anyone.
You realise she isn’t the one.
Months later, you tell
her your story.
Cast a line in my direction,
I’m in need of some reflection.
Maybe I should go alone.
My mood is about as stable as my WiFi connection right now. Not very.
(Source: handabears)
“I’m the ‘good girl’, but the only guys I’m attracted to are the ‘bad’ ones. They’ll never go for me. ”
Love
It’s a four letter word that now scares the heck out of me. Love sounds a bit too much like the word commitment to my ears, and when said in the same sentence, I can feel the stones of discomfort slowly settle in my stomach, eels making their way through currents of worry. It was something I contemplated often. What is love? What does it mean to love?
Companionship is love, is it not? But love is used so much out of context these days that the lines have blurred. A person may love their pet, love a genre of music, love an idol. Where does it stop? Where did it begin?
Why do I fear this word so much that I choke on it each time it tries to make its way up my throat?
Speak
