This is a personal documentation through poetry.
I am learning to look inward now, give myself love when I least want to. I do not live to love others, I live to love myself. I will find and create what is enough for me, and you will learn to let it...
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Of course it comes to this. Every means of love comes to an end this way. Every fleeting touch and every eager kiss Turns into a desire that fills up all vessels of effort. Fills it up until it's all that spills out onto my skin. And my skin is all that matters. My flesh. My face. My body. Not the bones beneath them, Not even the soul guiding them. And I loathe them for it. Every man who's kissed my skin turned me into a prize, Something to claim and keep. And victory came through their fingers when they realized they had won me over— And over. And over. It never worked out in my favor, Ever since that killer took my bouquet, And made me bleed. He imprisoned me forever in that very desire:
"If I am not just a body, then what could I be to you?If I am not desirable, then why look at me?If I must be anything at all, well I might as well be yours."
