Confession about infatuation
You said to me to write a novel about you. But I am not so good at storytelling. Perhaps, I have never figured it out, or myself in you. I could never do prose when I think of you. Because what I feel is endless poetry. And in poems, all I love, I love alone with brutal, painful honesty.
You thought, I saw you first, and then I fell into your schemes,
but baby that ain’t true, in the dark my eyes see everyone.
Your green light shed its veil over me, and I played with it for years.
But we switch places, and your darkness felt like a weight on top of my love that kept on growing without me knowing or wanting it to. I grew up under your hidden glance, dependent on your touch. It started to hurt, when the poem was writing itself like a confession.
you said to me I am in love with you, as I keep returning after I said it’s the last time. You are right. I am. Just like a fly on a spider’s web.
I am closing myself to you and open the jar in front of others at the worst possible times, and they think I am crazy like I am in love with them and my behaviour is irrational and they ran from me, cause no wants to glue the broken pieces. But, all I feel is for you, and all I can do is shifting to someone who will embrace it, but poems are my favourite kind of art so no luck in writing prose.
You said you feel unjust towards me cause you can’t feel the same but you’re not to blame. I am just a kid who searches for love and protection to make up for a bitter childhood. I learnt hope to be a cruel mistress and deception, her best friend.
