Dear potential lover
When you fall in love with me
Make sure to love the way,
my face dulls on gloomy days;
like a rose in autumn.
And fall for my muddy brown eyes,
that take you to worlds with distant skies;
eyes like fields of adventure.
My stretch marks, scattered simultaneously,
like strokes of a brush set wild and free;
their colour of clouds with silver lining.
Fall for my unpainted nails, the plain sort
stubby, and cut almost too short;
nails made for playing in the soil.
Love my tummy, un-flat and not so lean,
the kind you don’t see in magazines;
a tummy with gentle hills.
Admire the way I look,
lost, snuggled up in a book;
the way I stare at the trees,
my fine hair playing with the breeze;
love my excessive day-dreaming
and my serenity on afternoon walks.
Dear potential lover:
Love all of me;
My perfections
and my imperfections
and my perfect imperfections.
Shayma. .
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 6:27 AM UTC
Once upon a chilly October night
we'll lay under our blanket of tranquility and comfort,
and we'll gaze as the stars gather round,
from all the corners of the serene sky,
to listen in on our secrets and conversation.
But we won't care,
as long as they bring us enough light
to be able to glimpse each others eyes
and as long as they beautify the sky.
And perhaps,
as our souls, the stars and the moon
dance in harmony with the night breeze,
we'll feel complete.
s.a.
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
It’s 2:39 in the morning and
I’m sitting on my fold-in couch
with my toothbrush hanging from my mouth.
This is not a poem.
This is the realization that hits me
out of nowhere
so suddenly,
so unexpectedly,
in the midst of something so ordinary.
This is not a poem.
This is me, at 2:40 in the morning,
realizing that you were never good enough for me.
That I chose to put myself down, to ignore
my wishes and desires
so as to please you.
That I made up all these excuses for you,
that I came up with all these reasons to justify
why you were manipulating me,
that I kept telling myself you’d eventually
admit to having loved me all along.
This is not a poem.
I do not need a metaphor to tell you
that I realized I do not need you.
That I realized I never really did.
Right now, at 2:43 in the morning
I have never felt more alive
than in this very second
now that I am free of you.
This is not a poem.
This is a goodbye letter to the me that thought she loved you.
This is me, at 2:45 in the morning,
knowing my worth.
I am made of a billion universes
scattered inside my eyes,
I am a billion trembles,
I am nebulous,
and it’s 2:46 in the morning,
I’m sitting on my fold-in couch
with my toothbrush hanging from my mouth.
This is not a poem.
This is the realization that hits me
out of nowhere
so suddenly,
so unexpectedly,
in the midst of something so ordinary:
I am so much better than anything you’ll ever be.
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 11:40 AM UTC