All I ever wanted was to be loved. The kind where they fight for and beside you. So I loved myself and stood alone.
Category: Uncategorized
-
Echoes of Imperfection
It wasn’t toxic.
No, but it was messy.
A tangled web of half truths.
Fear and damage blocking.
The downpour of brokenness we both carry from before we met.
Neither needing fixing, just being.
It wasn’t toxic.
It was everything I never knew I would ache for no matter how much time had passed.
-
Hidden in Plain Sight.
Sometimes what we thought was lost was there all along.
Hidden under our mess. Unable to see it through the clutter. But there it was all along. I just had to be patient and trust I would be okay. Life has a unique way up showing up when you let go and that’s beautiful.
-
The Art of Owning Your Rarity…
Confessions of all things that come to mind. Basking in the wonder around. Blanket fort secret keeper of mysteries of the imagination. Devotion, obsession, passion aligning with support. Dancing a delicate dance with every complexity. Feeling experiences the way music makes me soar. Making the most sacred of pinky promises with the same fingers digging in your body as I cling to it.
Rare.
That is how I must experience love.
Because that is what I encompass; Rarity…
-
The Art of Deception
It’s so amusing for me when people want to play. Thinking they can manipulate or deceive. Being myself, I have this twisted game where I let them think they’re in control, just to watch what they will do. It’s how I observe to see the good, while allowing the shadows have their way. I walked through hell and emerged many times over. Such a game as this you can not win against a Queen of both realms. May the best version of you win in the game of truth.
-
Empty Vessel
He didn’t care about you.
He didn’t even like you.
His power wasn’t even his.
It was relient on you not seeing yourself clearly.All that you felt, that wasn’t him. Your magnetic field cloaked him until you remembered yourself.
-
The Art of Disappointment
You didn’t deserve to share my bed.
Words, pretty words.
That was your one and only skill.
Any boy can put a stick in a hole.
Such a shame no one taught you the sensuality of a woman’s body.
The manner in which in can entrance you.
Men know a woman’s body is an alter.
One to be taken in and devoured.
That’s why your body count is so high.
Death by a thousand unsuccessful ego driven nuts.
-
Muse & Mirror
How clever that the singular being who calms me, consumes me, inspires me, and makes me more of who I am. My muse, desire, safe place in a storm. Witty and iconic. Wrapped in charisma, humor, and brutality. I do find it comically ironic that this enigmatic man is also the one that holds up a mirror to my deepest wounds. Forced to see all that is him and me as both individuals and when we come together. Captivating me with a journey of how far this can push me and help me become who I’ve always been.
-
Ink and Intent
You shared my private information. Things shared in confidence were betrayed. Over drinks, at gatherings, on the phone, in the bed of others. I hope you understand that while I stayed silent; I do not share the same views of loyalty. In my silence, I do what I have done since I was a child. I have a long-standing alliance with my story. I will keep you a secret, but it’s my turn to tell stories. With my ink ready, I hope to captivate more of your fandom with my name and business in your mouth.
-
Bonded Under the Same Moon
As the candlelight flickers, my thoughts wandered to you. Was it the music, the memories, or just a tug in our bond? Tears welling up in my eyes. I pictured how I would feel if you no longer walked the earth. Floodgates pouring through me. I fear a world without you would devastate my existence. I don’t think my lungs could breathe in air that didn’t have your soul in it. That kind of loss is incomprehensible to me. The world needs your smile, the one with that glint of shine that reaches your eyes. How boring life would be without your mind and wit. Where would my love go if we weren’t under the same moon? I would remain frozen in grief. A perpetual state of a tortured poet for all my days.
Ink Stained Soul... 