February 20th, 2021
The irony is bitter in my mouth. I am filling shoes twice my size, and playing the part of people who disappoint me. There shouldn't be room to wonder, yet the room in my head is barren-not filled with enough thoughts of him. How can I force it? How can I learn to love? If I haven't fallen now, is it safe to say I will one day? I hate the ones who linger. I hate the ones who keep others guessing. But I'm worse now. I'm worse than those who sit on fences at the expense of someone's heart. He doesn't have to guess or wonder at all; I give him no reason to. As far as this man knows, I am his. And I am, according to the title he gifted me. You would never catch me betraying such a title, but I don't know how to obey it either. I am his and he is mine according to the words. But the irony sinks into me. I trip over shoes that are tied together. I tied them myself. The irony is digging myself into this hole. The bitter taste leaves me wondering why I'm with someone I don't know how to love yet.
R.K.
YOU ARE READING
Holeheart
PoezjaI am the forgiver. I am the destroyer. I'm not at fault, but I deserve to be. Poetry and Prose Volume V 2021 DISCONTINUED
