|queen of taco tuesday. her grace. (prattl) wrote,|
@ 2016-09-23 16:15:00
she made me feel strong. yes, i had always been strong but this was different. not strong because i had to be, strong because there was no other option. truly strong. the strength of my convictions, the strength of my worth, the strength of my light. she made me believe it. she said she loved me for my mind. she made me blush. she read my poetry and she understood me. she was so many things before she was mine. if she was ever mine.
she belonged to him. everyone, it seemed, belonged to him. the boy with the words. (or she belonged to no one but herself and it was the desire to possess her that led to the end). she was not mine but she was part of me. she was a writer and the way her tongue twisted words was more than intoxicating. she would have me hanging as each sound drifted from her lips, as she read to me the night my father's temper left a bruise on my cheek.
she was not mine and i was still broken. a darkness was present after she died. a darkness that i had been desperately trying to bring back to the light. i thought i could save her, where i had failed before. i loved her in all of her imperfections. i felt her sorrow, her pain, her loneliness, and her ambition and i wanted to be part of it. i wanted to make amends. i wanted to absolve my conscience. i wanted to help her get better... i wanted to sleep at night.
she was broody. she was moody. she was always so tired. she was beautiful. she had this singing voice that could rival the greats and legends. she spoke french and she had felt some of the pain i was feeling. i begged her to let me save her. i couldn't even save myself. we were not good for each other and despite my imagined noble intentions, it ended. violently and over and over again. a pattern, it would seem, appeared as once again a woman was telling me that i was the only thing keeping her from ending her life.
she saved me. she made me feel human. still with the words that enthralled and enchanted. one too many nights of feeling alone while laying next to someone only to turn to her. she told me it wasn't my fault and i tried to believe her. she was so convincing. she told me that she knew the secret of happiness and i kissed her. so did i. happiness was between her lips. kissed by fire is what i called the feeling: passion ripping the air from my lungs and scorching any part of my body near hers.
i had known, deep down, that i was already hers. in the aftermath of the kiss i knew that some part of her was mine. still his, but mine as well.