All my life, I’ve been afraid of things, as a child and a woman must be. I lied about it naturally. I fancied myself a witch and walked in dark streets to punish myself for my doubts. But I knew what it meant to be afraid. And now, in this darkness, I fear nothing. If you were to leave me here, I would feel nothing. I would walk as I am walking now. As a man, you can’t know what I mean by what I say. You can’t know a woman’s vulnerability. You can’t know the sense of power that belongs to me now.
And they will always chase the pretty ones.
They will go after the ones who visually please them.
They won’t go after the ones who light their dark minds with the gift of knowledge.
They won’t go after the ones who set their heart on fire with their warmth.
They won’t go after the ones who’s voices sound like the heaven’s orchestra at play.
They won’t go after the ones who love these ignorant boys with all their heart and soul.
With their kindness, voices and their never ending knowledge of the magnificent universe around them.
No. They’ll chase the pretty ones regardless.
And I’ve strangely come to accept it.
I am eternally, devastatingly romantic, and I thought people would see it because ‘romantic’ doesn’t mean ‘sugary.’ It’s dark and tormented — the furor of passion, the despair of an idealism that you can’t attain.
Cautiously, I allowed
myself to feel good
at times.
I found moments of
peace in cheap
rooms
just staring at the
knobs of some
dresser
or listening to the
rain in the
dark.
The less I needed
the better I
felt.