Love has sprung up in the last few months, and I have been a witness that has grown with very many couples, a witness that has loved the love that these couples have, a witness that has longed for what they have but as I look into the past patterns, it makes me wonder if love will find me.
I have loved love and in some cases, love has loved me back. But it was too late. Hate and hurt had masked my eyes and heart, I could not get over it, I did not seek its hand. Sometimes I wonder if the people who I am thinking about as I write this think about how great our love would’ve been like if I had not thwarted it away. I wonder if they miss me as I miss those little lovely moments that I think equate to love. I wonder if they still love me as I loved them.
Love chose me sometimes but the times I chose to love love – I was not loved back. I also wonder and question if it actually chose me. For when I gave it the tips of my split mind, it never responded. For when I brushed it with the scraps of my tainted heart, it stopped breathing into my lungs. When I bled at its feet about my undying but perverted spits of my words, the glass walls slipped through my hands.
Love is one thing I have grown to know but also realise that I’ll never have it. I stand in its way sometimes and it capsizes.
‘I can never give myself to a love that has decided not to stand by me.’ – I always chant and sing these words day in day out to my soul and when I am with my friends. But when I sink into the depths of the colors of my heart, I know that I am dying and lying to myself. It is so like me to be dishonest to myself as long as it protects me from my over ambitious expectations. I have found past truths in the patterns of my old soul ties. I loved the sex, their touch, their warm voices, the little arguments and how I withheld cause I didn’t want to lose them. How I clothed myself with their skin. The little habits that I adopted from them.
I loved being loved! I loved love! I love love! I love being love! But it is a sin to my ego admitting that I love love.
Am I brave enough to surrender ?
Compromise, sacrifice, selfless are common words that we hear about love. Sometimes, I think that the reason I run and run so far away from love is because I am too selfish to offer all that and more. Am I even capable of giving or even accepting the love given ? Yes, I am. ( ish ish )
There is no gist or a turn over in this stanza. I know how to give and I have acceoted love. I am capable of it all. I guess somethings didnot work out. Of course there are things we never fully give. I never fully give away my dreams for a new life, I was tempted to give my womb away and be with child but I realised that that is one thing I cannot doom myself and that child. So, I walked away. I haven’t been brave but I have weirdly been the bravest in those moments that I felt hopeless.
i can stand here and say that I was brave in love and love was brave in me.
Why am I scared ?
I am not. I am just ‘worried’ that no-one will love who I am as a person. And I am mostly ‘worried’ about the future. For most of my encounters, I have failed to keep their interest at bay. I have failed to keep them intrigued. I hate that feeling when I know that they are slipping away. What and why are you leaving me for ? Where are you going ? But I have never been strong enough to ask. I just want to know why ? Whisper to me! Write to me! Tell me why you left ?
‘I am not in denial’ – of course I am. I just realised that I am not special and that I might not find the joy of love. We tend to mistake it for desperation but wouldn’t you love to find more joy and happiness in loving someone and in someone loving you. I am satisfied that doesn’t mean that I do not want more, that I’ll not hold on to it if it ever comes my way. But it isn’t here, it will never be here.
it will never be here with me. My wings are crippled. My throat is dry from all the calling and the searching. My beak is sore from building the beautiful nests that harbour my broken love stories. My claws are tired of engraving letters to the ebony woods of my heart.
Dearest tell me if sad birds ever get to fly again.
By M. Ferrister