They both are in love. Two pairs and I'm all alone. I question the guitars and the music and I question why I was doing it at all. All I had were to two of the same songs and a slice of pizza. Maybe I taught myself piano, but it doesn't make up for lost time.
Maybe I'm loveless. Nameless and loveless the same. Sometimes I sit in the middle of the night and listen to love songs. And think of what it's like to be held, with someone drawing circles on your stomach and playing with your hair. What's it like to be held? What's it liked to be loved by someone? What's it like to have such a connection with someone?
I'm not meant for love. After 14 years I should know I'm not desirable. A black and white girl like me can't possibly love if I'll miserable all the same. She's making me miserable and it's driving me up the walls.
I'm not meant for love but sometimes I'm hopeful that I might be wrong, and someone will take my hand and maybe I'll believe. But loveless souls don't get too far.
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Disenchanted
PoetryJust a a bunch of The House On Mango Street inspired vignettes/short stories Written in two parts: Loser Girl and Letters To Marza *Trigger warning: this story may touch on abuse, assault, self harm, and depression*
