There is no way to find happiness between us,
with the amount of suffering we have caused one another.

I’ll not cross your path again, and you should not cross mine.

Even though I long for what we had,
I know it will never be the same.

You didn’t know me. We kind of pretended to like each other because we wanted ***. And so we pretended to have a relationship. But  we really didn’t. This is a hardship. This is a struggle. Something to take on together. Otherwise, we are just living our own individual lives in tandem. This is the first piece of honesty that has shown itself in our relationship. This is the first sign of weakness. No, I don’t want it to happen again. I want to be cured of it. I want it expelled from my heart by the power of love. I want someone to wrap me up tightly in their arms and shush me as they rock me back and forth promising they will help me to overcome. I want their patience, acceptance, and understanding to be stronger than the anger and frustration that boils me inside. I want their kindness and devotion to give me the time to get better. I want them to watch over me as I grow. I am still the 19 year old girl living in her own flat for the first time in her life. I am still the maiden waiting to be molded by the man who becomes captivated by her youth and beauty. She has never been found, she is still waiting, hoping. Until…time runs out, and then she is thinking of building the walls, so she shares herself with no one, for their own protection.

It cannot be that a mother is happy
when her child is not.
Where is the logic to a mother's joy
and a child's sorrow?
Sacrilege to the balance and order of life
if a mother's dreams emerge
while her offspring withers during the hours of the day.
This cannot be.

It is the child that brings the joy to the whole of the world.
They are the moisture that springs life into being,
children are the songs that move our lives,
the rhythms that pound us into motion.

How can a mother feel the high notes when her child is morose?
Even if she wanted to laugh, her heart would pierce itself with a dagger sent from the mind,
"Your child is miserable.
It is not right for you to feel happiness now."

I am.
they say this is a false self,
clinging to my feelings.

but they are there, I feel them.

"The poet, the wise philosopher, and the saint not only reach a wide luminous consciousness, but they gain certain knowledge of substantial reality." says Patanjali.

but this poet clings to her self, because she feels, and they say this is wrong, I am doing this wrong, this wisdom, this living.

I know I am doing this wrong because I keep getting kicked out, exiled, left out, forgotten, ignored, smeared; and so my feelings keep happening, and I continue to cling, to cherish, only myself, because no one else does.

You wanna do something really lame

And fall in love

And succeed at everything

And stay home in our safe space

Where the worlds we discuss are enough muse

To keep me writing forever

The poet in my always wants to take apart everything

The shish in his pants as he slid them off and they hit my floor

How fur like, soft as thick, his inky hair was as I ran my fingers through it, caressing the scalp underneath gently with the tips

The beauty of the curves of the muscles in his back, how gorgeously proportioned every part of him is

The vibration of his laughter, the heaviness of his arms as he fell asleep wrapped around me

The way my heart squeezed when he woke up and cared gently for me

I haven't slept so well next to someone in so long

It all still hurts

So I see him, and we smile, and we both know
That this world existed between us
While everyone else speculates
And I pretend that
I don't have complicated feelings
And he pretends
He doesn't feel at all
And we pretend
We have only ever been friends