I shouldn't have to reduce myself
into a thin layer of nothing
lesser of me
to be considered worth a look
when I am drifting in the wind

I shouldn't have to rip my body apart
to please a fleeting pair of eyes on the street
when my clothes fall off my body
and my bones break in a crunch
For a number constructed by no one

It shouldn't be this way
but it is
but god I am trying. One bite at a time.

I think sometimes love will hurt
not in the sense of a heartbreak
more so in the worrying
the longing
the moments in between the highs and lows

And sometimes you make it worth it
sometimes you don't.
In the dusk underneath the fading light
I find your face in my palms
hurting willingly, loving deeply, in a bliss made specially for me.

They love you in ways they think is selfless
And at least in their mind its true
But they ******* up
And give you their insecurities
To create new ones to pass on

Sometimes they try their best
Sometimes they try
But at the end
They will hand you their heirlooms
And then you will be have the mend the broken glass.

She fell in love with the wind
she knows she shouldn't
but god HER hair is so shiny
and HER breath smells like the forest
It is a revelation for her
but just another story for HER

Years later, she will tell the breeze
of the wind that changed her life
and the wind will continue flowing along
sweeping the girls off their feet
but only for a brief moment
no one owns the wind.

The difference between a mother and a lover is
your lover may open scars
but your mother created them

I try so hard to forgive
but the thorns my mother left me
I am still trying to not give to my child

When I look upon her face
I know she tried her best
carrying her own thorns too, bleeding and tired.

And one day,
I might give my child scars too
in ways I do not intend to; believe me, I will feel so sorry.

I hope they will look upon me too
with the same understanding
and gently pull the thorns out.

the affirmation was important
as naked as we come, in our most fragile state.
The scars that shamefully hid, now under a shimmering light
skin to skin, breath to breath
as comforting as a new born and their mom
the sliding on the skin, pushed forward by confidence of a "yes"

The sun shines through the blinds
peeking curiously at the young couple
a sweetness in the air
"my love, breakfast?"
"yes."

I can't remember the last time
I wanted to type words that touched me
I become so uninspired
like a bee who neglects the beauty of the garden

Poetry is a form of vanity
Let me indulge in it again