Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

She

She stares right through the hill I hide behind,
right past the smoke and mirrors that keep me safe,
and she smiles,
as if she is pleased to see me,
just as I am,
with no pretence, no playing pretend,
just me, the way that God made me.

She has so many friends.
When I see her socialising,
I feel lonely,
like the last bird in the Amazon, when it’s gone,
(one day, it will be gone),
battling through another dismal day with nobody to call out to.
I don’t mean to,
God knows, I’ve been seriously trying to be more self sufficient,
but something about her makes me feel lost when I am not the lone target of her eyeline.

She unwraps me, like I am a birthday gift,
virtuous Virgo,
she unwraps me slowly,
excited eyes but patient fingertips,
savouring me,
saving the best for last as she rests between soft thighs and sighs as if she has finally found a home.

She asks me often,
if I think that she is beautiful,
and my soul sours at the thought that nobody has told her,
so,
I show her all the stanzas that escaped my heart,
and howled to the moon about how magnificent she is.

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