Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The Single Girl’s Guide To Sant Jordi

I have no need for flesh to burn.

My alter aches for roses,

given with good intentions,

their petals, soft and sentimental,

easing the exertion of existing in a home that grows ever hostile to my heart.

The right one never comes.

I’ve never been a martyr,

because I’m too much of a narcissist,

neatly placed on the planet,

refusing to be moved by snakelike stems that crowd my door,

for my alter aches,

but I have to break her heart,

holding her closer than anyone else ever has,

whispering through a whirlwind of our tears,

that she must wait for the right rose.

She has been passing out pages,

her finger seductively slinking down the spines of books that her suitors could never comprehend,

and I tell her,

again and again,

to save her soul,

and save her stanzas for those that deserve her.

My father did not die for the faith,

just human weakness,

unable to stay with me,

no matter how heartfelt my pleading was,

his greatest love was one gram bags,

journeying into his veins,

and since that day,

there was a part of me that thought I was born to be lonely,

and God,

it is so easy to give in to that,

and give myself to someone who won’t stay,

just for the few seconds where they give the impression that they could.

I am a well loved Princess,

in my imagination, at least,

knowing that there is no King with riches to fill a dragon’s mouth, in my place,

and no Saint who will swoop in and sweep me away.

This is a battle of my own making,

one I must begin and end on my own,

staring into the sterile, spine chilling eyes of loneliness,

his jaws snapping and snarling.

Could I fall in love with loneliness?

Sure. Right now, he is surrounded by condiments,

licking his lips as he beckons me closer,

and I am, as always, a lamb to the slaughter,

but I have a book behind my back,

full of promises of true love and romance,

and maybe,

just maybe,

this demon that I have been sent to satisfy is the right rose after all.

I don’t want him to come to church with me,

I just want to convert him to the kind of religion where he forsakes all others,

kneels before me,

and treats this Princess like a Queen.

I just want him to read my words,

and really appreciate what they mean.

Is that too much to ask?

Do you know what I mean?

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