Love, quite differently.

The water poured down
Her ill fated flesh
And she knew she loved him
She knew nothing less-
But his intentions
Were not the yellow roses
And forehead kisses
She’d envisioned.
(It’s not so mysterious to not be picked)
Maybe he liked her
When she was something to be had
And not when
She loved him, to its full capacity-
But it has to be
Needs to be
And perhaps if she scrubs to the marrow
Grinding down all the shit
All the broken pieces
Till they fit
Perhaps then he will see
They bleed the exact same way-
But love quite differently.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s