Writing

I’m tired of being told

Not all men

There's still some them

That’s enough of them

I’ve had a enough of them

If a dog bites you

Everybody has a thing

Something they're good at

And something they love

It's their thing

Sometimes its sports

Or arts

Or humor

Sometimes it's just being

Loved

I don't have a thing

His breath on my skin, soft like lily petals. A voice, deep and reverberating like that of a bass guitar, strums a tune to the beat of my heart. Lips pressed against my neck, love spins through my spine. Hands around me, I go limp, I fall.

there is a language, 

of clear skies and fluffy 

sheep-like clouds 

of tree-whispers 

and shooting stars. 

spoken  

in smile-lined faces 

Must we take the road displayed to us now,

With trim and tidy hedges to our side?

Curated by the hands that don't allow?

The hands that act if yesterday we died.

And if beyond we go this dreary road,

The world stops. 

Time stops. 

People stop. 

You're there and he is not. 

How is this fair?