I've always thought of myself as a writer, erroneously or not. Even though I didn't do much writing during my marriage, I considered it a part of me like my arm or the extra lumbar vertebra in my back. But, given the abundance of free time I have as a single woman, I've gotten back to it. And I thought I'd share some of it. Be gentle with me; I'm still getting back into the swing of things and talent is like a muscle. Mine's a little weak, and I can't go back to being a heavyweight without working at it regularly.
Fantasy
I have never been in the arms of a strong man,
But to you I would surrender and lay helpless as your arms surrounded me.
I can imagine the warmth, the heat.
I can feel it when I close my eyes, and I can picture the contrast between our flesh.
Will I ever know the feel of your body pressed against mine,
Or my lips caressing your broad shoulders?
Will I ever be showered by your long hair,
Feeling it tickle me as I breathe in your sweetness?
The answer is no. But isn't it nice to daydream?
No More Running
Do you think you could let me love you
For a minute
Or maybe an hour or two?
I see something behind your eyes.
A pain
Or a weight
Or a suffering
Or maybe a light
That seems to augment a longing in my soul.
How long has it been since you were truly intimate with someone?
Not a lover
Or a friend
Or a soulmate.
But someone who listened without waiting to talk?
Someone who withheld all judgment,
Who offered only acceptance and honesty and vindication in return for your revelations?
Someone who made you feel like you did when you were a kid
And your bike would catch air
And your stomach would turn cold and drop
But your arms and legs would be all hot and tingly?
I can be that for you, if you'd let me.
If you even read this.
If you don't think I'm unhinged or delusional.
Maybe you can take a leap of faith, and trust a stranger,
If my words made you feel something.
Maybe I can be someone you didn't know you were missing.
If you could let me love you
For a minute or
Maybe an hour or two.
Same New Thing
If I give you my heart,
I'm giving you power over me.
Thinking about that is exciting
And terrifying.
Last time I gave my heart away,
It was returned in horrible condition.
Broken into dozens of pieces
Covered in bootprints and teethmarks,
Tattooed with insults and foul names and things I can't even repeat.
Repairing it took years.
Carefully gluing and gently scrubbing,
Reminding myself of who and what I am as I erased years of
Guilt and shame and disparagement and scorn.
So I'm scared.
Scared to give you this newly-healed thing that I worked so hard to repair.
I know you could break it.
That's an unavoidable risk.
Though, I really don't think you will.
I've studied your hands, and I think you know how to be careful with it.
And why did I spend so long healing it, if not to give it away?
But what if you don't want it,
This used and scarred thing?
I wish I had something better to offer you, but this is all I've got.
And I really want you to have it.
I'm giving it to you, free of conditions and expectations,
Because my hope outweighs my fear.
Maybe I should put a bow on it first, though.
That's all for now, my loves. Gimme a shout, let me know what you think. But be gentle - I'm still getting there.
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