One-hundred and Sixty-one: Chosen

He says, you’re a tough one.
I say,
I’m a woman.
I say, I don’t want my scars to go away.
He says,
you artists… you’re crazy.

Emotions are amazing labyrinths
in which I lose myself without cause.
I am always going, going, gone,
grazing lovers’ knees because it’s easy.
I can bury the real emotions under them,
coat them with new experiences,
squash them with time.

This is why I want my history on my body.
I want shadows of my pain to shimmer
on my skin, I want to remember
how I became this maze of perseverance.

I am forging ahead, forgetting the curve of this hands.
I am getting back at him in my own way:
Watch me smoke a thousand cigarettes.
Watch me make dinner just to waste it.
Watch Pilates tighten me for someone else.
This is how the vortex of my mind works.

Watch how many men I can seduce.
I am foraging for proof:
I’m a catch if you can catch me.
But they can’t.
Casual love is so empty.
It balloons the ego
-I cannot complain-

I want something more,
something that won’t
pop with a single flame.

I have a bouncing smile
for all my suitors but
I would exchange them,
dozens of them,
for one of my chosen ones
-the ones I stood still for-
to choose me.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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