In silence my mind weaves the picture of all that I feel inside, my lips fail me and my voice falters. Forgive me.
I always thought that once I found someone who could love me, for my flaws and the darkness I always believed lived inside me, then I could be happy, I could open up my soul and show all I am; and that I would be understood. I was mistaken.
I still hit the same road block that I have always had; my heart is more than an organ that pumps blood through my body, it is my core, the center of who I am. It feels as though it comprises every organ between my throat and my pelvis, and radiates throughout what’s left of me. Once I learn to let down my guard and to slowly let the walls crumble, I love without reserve, without holding anything back. I give my all, everything I am. I love with the raw power of thundering waterfalls and rough seas. I love with the gentle breeze that caresses all it touches with ease; with the softness and calm of the warmest sunlight.
I am not understood, and the more I try to explain myself the harder it becomes to make sense. I am a poet, and yet poetry now seems like a small, frail, withered leaf that holds no value. My soul of which I was always so proud now seems like something overused and unnecessary. My mind, which I always thought was my most important feature now seems like a trap that I can’t escape.
There is so much locked inside me that I am desperate to share, but I fear that the small things that make it past my lips only succeed in showing me in unfavorable light. They show a childish outlook, when I am so much more than the small, frivolous thing that somehow manages to show while my depths remain hidden in dark silence.
Tears fell in the night while I lay in silence next to the man I love, while he slept I struggled to hold myself together, feeling small, feeling as though I was unworthy, feeling as though I had no place or space with him.
I felt as though my world was ending, crashing down around me, and I needed him. I missed him. I missed his warmth and the way he used to hold me so tightly, and fear seized me. I curled up on myself and tried not to be afraid, and to tell myself that he loves me. But I know that love fades, and I am not easy to love. I felt the cold slowly spreading through me, starting from the point between my lungs through my ribs and outwards. I felt it creep through my veins and make me shiver even though my body was warm. I bit my lip and the pain reminded me of my sins, and at that moment my love for him was equaled by my hatred of myself. A deep feeling of disgust that I cannot cleanse; that I cannot forget.
He has fallen for a writer; a woman who lives in her mind, and who thinks words and images and likenesses. He has fallen for a poet who feels too deeply, who is childlike and gullible. He has fallen for a creator who is still too immature to create anything of worth.
He’s fallen for a woman who can love with the depth of oceans, with the engulfing heat of fire, and the piercing cold of ice; a woman who needs and wants and desires affection above all else, and to know that she is wanted, needed and desired.
He has fallen for a woman who is afraid of finding herself unnecessary, or a burden. Afraid of becoming boring or taken for granted. Afraid of becoming too much. Afraid of him needing space alone without her, when space alone without him is cold and lonely.
She used to say that home was where he was, but now... she wonders if it is fair to think of it, or if perhaps it is too much to ask. She is only a woman. But a woman whose soul contains the universe, who plays with worlds and creates landscapes filled with untold wonders. A woman whose eyes see deeper than the physical world, and whose soul feels the slight tremors of energy surrounding her. She is a woman who has opened her arms and her heart to him, who has grown to love him with unwavering passion and who has dedicated herself to wanting only to make him happy.
She is a woman who fears asking for too much. A woman who still doubts her place in his life. A woman who is fragile, breakable, easy to bruise. A woman who is also strong, resilient, and prepared for the worst; prepared for the day when he decides that she is no longer what he wants or needs or desires; prepared for the day when he tells her gently that she is no longer necessary.
This is what it is to love a writer; we are not strictly sane, we do not fit in with normal people, we think too much and speak too little, unless it is nonsense in my case. We are creative, and yet we live in our heads. We are sensitive, so we build walls and defences. We are bleeding hearts and weeping eyes at the slightest provocation, and yet we make ourselves strong so we can withstand the cruelty of others. We feel too much so we push our feelings down and numb ourselves until we forget who we are; knowing only the shadow of who we were once upon a time when we were whole and unafraid of ourselves.
This writer has slowly allowed her feelings to come back, she’s allowing herself to fill up and overflow. She’s allowing the dams that she placed to subdue her feelings to break and get washed away in the torrents that have taken over. She has allowed herself to feel with the full power of everything that she is. It is frightening, and makes her vulnerable, but she wouldn’t have it any other way, for to feel everything with such intensity is to love unconditionally. And to love is what she wants to give him without reserve.
To love a writer is not easy. To let a writer love you is a promise. We are fickle, we are emotional, we are illogical most of the time, but when we say we love; we mean it. When we say that we are invested and committed we mean it. When we say that you are all we want ... we are unshakable until we are told otherwise. We do not leave... we are left.
This writer loves the man she has come to worship. It took time to allow herself to stop being afraid, it took time to stop being numb, it took time to break through her own walls and to feel something other than the shadow of the love that she knew she was capable of, and she made it. She is free of her first hurdle, and she will continue to work towards resolving the rest.
She loves him without reserve, even though she is afraid. She loves him with depth and passion even though she fears loving him too much. She loves him with the undying intensity of a poet.
I always thought that once I found someone who could love me, for my flaws and the darkness I always believed lived inside me, then I could be happy, I could open up my soul and show all I am; and that I would be understood. I was mistaken.
I still hit the same road block that I have always had; my heart is more than an organ that pumps blood through my body, it is my core, the center of who I am. It feels as though it comprises every organ between my throat and my pelvis, and radiates throughout what’s left of me. Once I learn to let down my guard and to slowly let the walls crumble, I love without reserve, without holding anything back. I give my all, everything I am. I love with the raw power of thundering waterfalls and rough seas. I love with the gentle breeze that caresses all it touches with ease; with the softness and calm of the warmest sunlight.
I am not understood, and the more I try to explain myself the harder it becomes to make sense. I am a poet, and yet poetry now seems like a small, frail, withered leaf that holds no value. My soul of which I was always so proud now seems like something overused and unnecessary. My mind, which I always thought was my most important feature now seems like a trap that I can’t escape.
There is so much locked inside me that I am desperate to share, but I fear that the small things that make it past my lips only succeed in showing me in unfavorable light. They show a childish outlook, when I am so much more than the small, frivolous thing that somehow manages to show while my depths remain hidden in dark silence.
Tears fell in the night while I lay in silence next to the man I love, while he slept I struggled to hold myself together, feeling small, feeling as though I was unworthy, feeling as though I had no place or space with him.
I felt as though my world was ending, crashing down around me, and I needed him. I missed him. I missed his warmth and the way he used to hold me so tightly, and fear seized me. I curled up on myself and tried not to be afraid, and to tell myself that he loves me. But I know that love fades, and I am not easy to love. I felt the cold slowly spreading through me, starting from the point between my lungs through my ribs and outwards. I felt it creep through my veins and make me shiver even though my body was warm. I bit my lip and the pain reminded me of my sins, and at that moment my love for him was equaled by my hatred of myself. A deep feeling of disgust that I cannot cleanse; that I cannot forget.
He has fallen for a writer; a woman who lives in her mind, and who thinks words and images and likenesses. He has fallen for a poet who feels too deeply, who is childlike and gullible. He has fallen for a creator who is still too immature to create anything of worth.
He’s fallen for a woman who can love with the depth of oceans, with the engulfing heat of fire, and the piercing cold of ice; a woman who needs and wants and desires affection above all else, and to know that she is wanted, needed and desired.
He has fallen for a woman who is afraid of finding herself unnecessary, or a burden. Afraid of becoming boring or taken for granted. Afraid of becoming too much. Afraid of him needing space alone without her, when space alone without him is cold and lonely.
She used to say that home was where he was, but now... she wonders if it is fair to think of it, or if perhaps it is too much to ask. She is only a woman. But a woman whose soul contains the universe, who plays with worlds and creates landscapes filled with untold wonders. A woman whose eyes see deeper than the physical world, and whose soul feels the slight tremors of energy surrounding her. She is a woman who has opened her arms and her heart to him, who has grown to love him with unwavering passion and who has dedicated herself to wanting only to make him happy.
She is a woman who fears asking for too much. A woman who still doubts her place in his life. A woman who is fragile, breakable, easy to bruise. A woman who is also strong, resilient, and prepared for the worst; prepared for the day when he decides that she is no longer what he wants or needs or desires; prepared for the day when he tells her gently that she is no longer necessary.
This is what it is to love a writer; we are not strictly sane, we do not fit in with normal people, we think too much and speak too little, unless it is nonsense in my case. We are creative, and yet we live in our heads. We are sensitive, so we build walls and defences. We are bleeding hearts and weeping eyes at the slightest provocation, and yet we make ourselves strong so we can withstand the cruelty of others. We feel too much so we push our feelings down and numb ourselves until we forget who we are; knowing only the shadow of who we were once upon a time when we were whole and unafraid of ourselves.
This writer has slowly allowed her feelings to come back, she’s allowing herself to fill up and overflow. She’s allowing the dams that she placed to subdue her feelings to break and get washed away in the torrents that have taken over. She has allowed herself to feel with the full power of everything that she is. It is frightening, and makes her vulnerable, but she wouldn’t have it any other way, for to feel everything with such intensity is to love unconditionally. And to love is what she wants to give him without reserve.
To love a writer is not easy. To let a writer love you is a promise. We are fickle, we are emotional, we are illogical most of the time, but when we say we love; we mean it. When we say that we are invested and committed we mean it. When we say that you are all we want ... we are unshakable until we are told otherwise. We do not leave... we are left.
This writer loves the man she has come to worship. It took time to allow herself to stop being afraid, it took time to stop being numb, it took time to break through her own walls and to feel something other than the shadow of the love that she knew she was capable of, and she made it. She is free of her first hurdle, and she will continue to work towards resolving the rest.
She loves him without reserve, even though she is afraid. She loves him with depth and passion even though she fears loving him too much. She loves him with the undying intensity of a poet.
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