writing a poem is hard when your soul contradicts the rest of you. i say i love this woman and mean it, and fear grips me, puts its finger on my lips, and shushes me. tells me that neither of us is ready, that i don’t know my own thoughts, hopes, dreams, wants, needs, and their reflection in the mirror of her stark blue eyes and soul. that it’s all an imagining beyond my own soul and comprehension, that i’m projecting a long lost sense of helplessness and courage onto her without consent because i seek acceptances and intimacies beyond my worth. and still, knuckle-deep in this hard, scathing noise is a truth i refuse to ignore. i am hers in my entirety and only want to know that she is mine— my soul contradicts the rest of me but i faithfully **** it and aim for the future i’ve hoped lives in both of us.
She reclines, nestled amongst her stacked pillows, legs spread wide, hands cradle her delicate flower. Fingers wander, igniting sensations; closed eyes, biting lip in anticipation. Her final release standing ovation