They say “write what you know”

I want to write about love and beauty, but I only know ugly.
No heart has ever belong to me,
no hands have ever sparked at a touch.
Ugly lives with creative minds,
given courtesy of dreamy teen rom coms.

I want to write about fun family trips and birthdays'.
Joyous days spent frolicking on the beach,
but I only know secrets, shouting, spite.
Love that should be given as sweet as honey,
yet this family bee sting is laced with bitterness.

I would love to write about the moments of content.
wrapped in the light of the moon with someone,
breathing in synchronisation.
To tremor when I stand around you,
my heart racing to keep up with my shaky infatuation.

So i don’t write about these things.
I write about awkward fumblings,
ungracefulness of my ungainly movements.
dinners with no conversation,
the dullness of an everyday flat life.

I write what i know.

Your hand felt cold,
almost as cold as the way you explained your heart to be.
I never believed that.
How could something so beautiful have a heart of filth?
Not you, no.
Your heart was beautiful, Your heart was gold.
And the way you explained mine to be, the words you used,
worked perfectly for the way i saw yours.
I began to be content with the way you felt for me,
and you content with way i felt for you.
We were okay knowing that we saw the bright in each other.
We were okay knowing that we saw the dark too.
We were okay.