Why is *** called making love
when there are so many other acts,
far less physical, far less cheap, than that?
The world reveals pristine, porcelain skin
over untouched and idle thoughts.
Undresses limbs over addressing morals,
Grips headboards over words,
Scrambles bedsheets over aspirations.
But fine, go ahead, call it love,
and wonder why young generations
grasp blindly at the concept
and consider themselves fools,
falling down again.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 9:34 PM UTC
I used to believe that I was an aromantic,
a being incapable of feeling any romantic ties to another.
I had convinced myself that I loved people before you,
I’m sure I’ll convince myself I love people after you,
but until you I didn’t realize I was capable of love.
No one else has hurt me so badly I could hear my heart break,
no one else but you.
So thank you for loving me and letting me love you,
thank you for keeping me up half the night deciding what to do.
Thank you for teaching me I am not an aromantic,
but I think I’m leaving you. Don’t worry, you’ll get over me too.
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
Once upon a time she believed
with every ounce of her heart
in the myth and legend of better.
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 3:42 PM UTC
Wrinkles and scars
are medals
won for valor
in the thousand
private battles
we call a lifetime.
~mce
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 3:34 PM UTC