I was sitting by the mailbox waiting on love,  stiff as
a recently washed shirt- sitting on an ironing board
I’m sorry if you catch me in a sour mood, there’s this moody
spirit that let me fall in love with the echoes hitting the wall-
While my voice was shouting at the wind; I could hardly breathe
My lover played a tune with my beard, as if they were guitar strings-
But I couldn’t complain to this lioness, for she’s the roar of a
mistress’s hungry temper

But I still love her so, still from the days of our courtship- and every
night she opens up to me as a suitcase, and I bare the luggage of her
nightly sores, with these bags hanging under my eyes-
I still love her so, as her chatter mouth is like a tap running,
and I’m her sink catching all that gossiping spit-

I still love her so, even as she’s an office desk covered in endless
papers, when she starts to feel like a piece of work-
I still love her so, cos she firstly showed me all of her flaws,
so nothing she does surprises me at all; still she was pleasantly
surprised that I still chose her, to be my wife

I noticed I stopped being so judgmental

Maybe because I have become more human



                         and in doing so


          I have understood what being human is.


   I am flawed

                                               I make mistakes

      And

                                     I learn

                                                    
                       I improve

        I love

                                                              I hurt

                      And

    
                                  I try again.

I know what I am. I am a familiar to my faults.
I line them up each morning and sound them off at the top of my lungs. I hold them in my arms and rock them back to sleep every night. They cling to me as scars linger on the skin. They burst out during the most inopportune moments; breaking through silence like water through rust.

Oops, I edit
As I go,
I take a step
Then erase it.
It’s counterproductive,
Don’t I know,
But I see the flaw
Then I chase it.
It won’t go away
‘Til the mirror is shattered,
Whether or not
It actually matters.

So I’ll cut and I’ll add
I’ll rewrite, double back
Only hoping that you’ll
Love what’s left
In the end.

Moving with the sea
Dancing with the waves
Letting the rhythm of the water wash my melancholic soul
All the ripples and surges
I beg
Cleanse me but see me beyond my flaws

I cannot fathom the fascination you have with being vulnerable,
Aren’t you more susceptible to deception?

Does it not allow for more frequent coming and going out of your life?
Out of your heart?

Where is the beauty in being who I am?
I am rough, raw and rigid.

Where is the beauty in stiffness? Besides the ability to withstand itself.
Maybe the mere fact that it does not tilt or shift for no one.
But who wants to love someone as stubborn as that?

There is no beauty in being vulnerable.

You cannot continue bleeding out ounces of yourself for people who cannot stand the sight of blood.