Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me.
I am not dainty. I am no ****.
Crippled by habit, I once thought was love.
When you are wretched without words, it can **** you almost.
You slump, you twist thousand tales. You will do anything to be with the man.
One fine day, red satin in the gale you will gently flow, reading your own precious thoughts.
Maybe you will realise, the innocence of your generosity and persuasions unkind.
And the love you yearned for, will then not make any sense at all.
Then the ocean cyan beneath you, will be the answer to all.
I am the most comfortable here. I am love. I am whole.