I married at the age of 17 and felt the weight of a life already spoken for, a man who I was supposedly destined to marry, children to bear who I would have trouble caring for, the image of a woman who wasn’t expected to do anything but become creator to an ideal family, an ordinary vision.

When we first got married, he was a distant man, I felt him best embraced, a hard chest and arms that clutched me like a dream, otherwise our lives moved to a preset rhythm, roles we couldn’t break and a music that slowly seeped into the background of our muddy existence. Over time he softened, had beautiful things to say about tomorrow, that we’d stay loyal to this path and soon find ourselves like everyone else, happy.

I learned to write poems during the days spent alone, the isolation tests the limits of your emotion and played catalyst to a creative force I could neither control nor understand, I began with verses brief and full of dark whimsy, but learned to pack more of myself into the prose, days when I felt empty and giftless my poems breathed heavy.

The day he sought to love me, was when he became a stranger. His every attempt to be affectionate, each will to kiss and hold was suddenly infused with warm and nervous energy, a stillness roused inside him and wanted to be celebrated, I tried to fix my feet unto this swingle, but there was a boundary I couldn’t pass. I could only love him so much, something in my heart held on to this defeat like it was an opportunity.

I’ve taught my body to recognize your name, fingers flock to a memory of nights content in quiet, we saw too late that we had aged and our youth was now a wish, perpetually wishing for better things. I have little left to give, contemplation is a young girl’s game. My being is hustled like machinery, void of the simplest of faith.

We’ve lead a long life together, I’m sorry for the person I’ve become. All that you desire from a woman’s company, the things you’ve missed in my voice and smile, all the parts of me there are to treasure: they are all there locked into the poems I’ve written, devote yourself to them, you may be lucky to find a woman still dancing (across dots,letters and infinitely open spaces), she will whisper into your ear lovely things and lull you into an ageless bliss.

1 comment:

li-ann said...

your words tug at one's heart strings. a writer's soul is wrought with heightened sensitivity, feeling everything, missing nothing. once words are set to paper, one breathes free.