This is an angry letter

This is an angry letter to you when you tore down my walls and broke into my castle, wrecking my doors and breaking down my fortifications, pushing yourself into me, forcing your big body through my small frames, bursting my boxed up feelings. You lied to me saying you loved me, saying you wanted me, saying you want me to be with you, saying I was your lover.

You burnt my brilliant cornucopia, my fields of green and gold with your flaming torches, so carelessly flung onto the lush grass. The grass withered beneath your step and crumpled, into the shapeless form they were left in.

You smashed my glass onto the cold, hard ground. Maybe you did what you had to do, maybe you didn’t like the glass mug I did, maybe you didn’t feel that it mattered to me.

You tossed me into the garbage bin like trash, like a used piece of paper, paper plane lines and marks etched on my skin, wrinkled at the edges and burnt as crisp. You threw me into the bin like the basketball scored.

No this is not a piece of literature, this is not a piece of art. In fact, this is a piece of crap that denotes how much I have given to you, and how much I regret it.

I want it all back, back, back. To me.


Good morning

I like it, when he ruffles his hair in the morning, eyes sleepy.
I like it, when he holds up his shirts and compares them, although to be honest they all look a bit crumpled.
I like it, when he forgets to put on his underwear.
I like it, when he realises this in dismay and pulls his shirt off again.
I like it, when he struggles to tuck his shirt in his pants, trying to look tidy.
I like it, when he looks in the mirror and checks his reflection.
I like it, when he rummages through the drawer to find his other sock.
I like it, when he pulls my shirt back down over my tummy, and wraps me back up in my blanket.
I like it, when he kisses my forehead and makes me feel happy and safe.
I like it, when he laughs at my jokes and rates them, I got at most only a 5 yesterday. (and the full scale is 10)
I wonder if he’ll tell me that he loves me.
I wonder if he’ll promise me to wear more clothes, like I promised him I would.
I wonder if I’m anything to him, than a toy at the spur of the moment.
I wonder if someday I will have the courage to tell him everything.
I wonder if he’ll tell me I’m his everything.

Credits to 8bird “Morning Sun”