Another notch to add to my
bedpost. Is this an accomplishment or a
crass reminder of my inability to
determine for myself what I need?
Every person I meet is a potential match,
faces passing and changing, each one
giving me the slightest
hope.
I have hope in buckets, fed by an inability to
journey inward. I reap the painful
karma of misplaced affection.
Lying my way through another failed relationship.
My love is out there aren’t they?
Not a fantasy or a person I shoved into a box full
of my expectations.
Poor him, poor her, poor them: unknowing participants in a
quest that should have begun with me. These fake
realities engulf me, engulf years of my life. I keep
smiling and wishing:
"This one is the one." And yet somehow it escapes me, this
understanding that I do not need to be completed. I am
valid. I do not need you to love me? Oh,
what a wonder it would be to believe in these
xanadu dreams, where self-love freely flows,
yearning not for completion but self-acceptance. I want to be
zealous in embracing the person I choose: me.
About the Creator
Emmy B
I write some of my truths, and use words to weave stories and ideas together. Writing is a passion and an outlet for me and I hope to inspire, challenge, or simply be a reflection of others's experiences - to make people feel seen!
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