And as soon as it’s quiet you are reduced to a thimble.
Find all you can to busy-up your mind.
It’s messy in there and you’d rather not turn on the light.
I am more resilient than a one-time punch
What weapons have you born before ?
You think I cannot stomach them?
A crush of bones, a snapping of ligaments
Unexpected shots landing intimately
And the worst of all – a silencer
To my lips, my eyes, across my chest
Well, I am stronger than a one-time punch
Won’t you join me ?
The night clingers, they are tangled in her web.
She is a wayward dancer, softened at the edges.
He wanders, holding his shape.
Their backdrop sweetly silent, a shimmer, a shiver,
they expand into the unknown.
He reaches, floats for her.
Or is it she, sidling towards him?
Her hair a nest of sparkles, she’s nothing but a trickster in the light.
Never took a second
Never not for you
One thing I seem to have always been great at, that I have done consistently, is love. I am probably, in many peoples’ eyes that lame/wanky/soppy person who loves love.
I love myself. I am very grateful to not recall a time that I have had particularly low self worth. I believe that I deserve happiness in this form.
But mostly, or let’s hope, in equal measure, I love outwards. But I feel like some sort of anomaly because I haven’t really felt that fear of love or being loved in great force. I don’t remember ever being so afraid of getting hurt that I chose not to move forward or explore something. (Maybe I don’t seem wanky, perhaps I’m just self righteous?)
Even when I’m teetering on uncomfortable ground, when I feel the other might be pulling away, I don’t feel that fear, or I don’t allow it to to block me. Because then I don’t feel honest. (So maybe I’m a fool?)
To me love is one of the most natural states of being…I don’t know how to not do it. It’s joyful and it is good for us all the way down to our bones.
When we love, feel loved, give love, it opens our eyes and minds to places we cannot see or imagine otherwise. Doesn’t it?
Deciding not to allow yourself to be loved, not loving yourself, holding back on feeling it, is like a door forced shut.
Closing it in the honest face of change, the open hand of growth.
I seem to have always trusted easily, loved willingly, opening doors to the unknown adventure. And it is just that that I love – the adventure. Together, yet individual also, I’ve heard there is a place some people travel. They live harmoniously and chaotically, round and red-cheeked, robust; and sometimes paper thin, curling at the edges. But I’ve heard each others’ blunders are the glue that pulls them tighter in this netherworld.
Someone suggested to me recently that perhaps I’m met with closed doors to this place because my “unabashed” love highlights something in them that they do not perceive the same as I would on the receiving end. That such a level of openness could mean too much commitment, or too high a possibility of commitment being a goal that must be quickly reached.
But what is it then, this commitment? How does it look, what colour does it wear?
Is it a ring? A baby? An emotion? Do you simply reach a point one day when you realise you have already committed, and if so, what signifies this? Is it a certain amount of time? Perhaps a phrase, a particular use of words?
Is there a secret language the committed find and express themselves in that I am unaware of?
Perhaps I am using it too willingly, mistakenly?