Possibly, you’ll grant me forbearance,
For my accursed
Arrogance
But there’s one thing I hate more than
Loneliness,
And that’s ...
Being wrong.
Yes, better to endure the pain of
Unwarm bed,
Unkissed lips,
Existing solely for oneself,
Than to hear the fleeting harshness of
“You’re incorrect.”
Just as Eve belonged to Adam,
You were for me
Nay,
Our commonalities extended beyond mortal comparison,
You were me,
My own anima.
(Or so I thought)
Even now,
Years after my admiration,
I think about the rail-thinness,
Glasses-and-braces wearing beauty queendom
The self-confident “Do I have something in my teeth?”
And shake my head
I knew not what to do with myself.
When I saw your sexiness emerge from
The iron bars of your
Insecurity,
For a man resting at Social Echelon’s
Apex,
I learned,
No one
Deserves
Anything
Solely based on
Existence.
Within the hallows of my chambers,
I questioned
“If God exists,
Why would he assemble a dopplegänger of me,
Grant it the joys and tribulations of
Femininity,
And design it to lust after
Someone else?
Someone dissimilar?
But as Son wept, Father laughed,
Seeing parallels between this and His
First Creations,
Not bathing me in light of
Realization until
Years later.
And anytime I think
Someone’s designed for me
Only,
I see
Half-eaten fruits of
Free will,
And I
Nod.
YOU ARE READING
Romantically Incorrect
PoetryBorn, raised, and currently living in Detroit, Michigan, Morgan Coby is a combination of many different things around him: the gritty realities of the city where he dwells, and the wondrous idealism from the fictional worlds of stories, cartoons, an...
