Read The raw emotions of a woman for Free Online

good enough to be sincerely loved creep
into our daily discoveries of ourselves, that seep into
conversations, that come in ever so subtly staring at a kitchen
table, that we have protection. That we are better, because we have
become a part of a much greater entity just by agreeing.
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    The men who I have loved
    We stare at one another
like children playing with crayons, how will you draw me I ask,
glancing at the colors and the lines, glancing at your fingers as
they move through the selections of us, the timing and the reasons
and of course all the running around we seem to do. And you glance
suspiciously at the color blue.
    I know you I say laughing, taking the crayon
from your hand, the words from your lips as I paint my face on all
your characters. I know what you are thinking when you are alone, I
joke spelling out adverbs and nouns as I create a city, the
fantasies in my head, one by one, by one, until they appear like
drops of water on petals.
    Wait I hear you say, the men of men of men that
have created our towers of history, the life line of generations
and children and truths that can’t be pronounced for they would
sound too dangerous on a tongue, wait. I don’t think those things
at all.
    But, I say with the color still between my
fingers and my body leaning dangerously close to your side, I
thought.
    Well I never said any of it, is the voice
behind another mind that I can feel crawl out from some small
corner crouching and scratching.
    I thought, I want to believe.
    I don’t want you to like me, comes a cold set
of eyes, a half hazard lazy tongue that has now circled around all
my adjectives as if they are candy coating our hands.
    And I stare away, thinking about what I was
never supposed to have thought, as the strange thunder of another
man’s authority has ruined my infatuation again, it has changed my
guard into silly putty with strings so carefully entwining, so
carefully changing, becoming mushy and softer and
afraid.
    I never liked you, says the boy with all the
crayons of different colors, attempting to draw with that same blue
that I thought was made just for me, which would describe my
eyes.
    What are you drawing I ask, timid now as I hold
on to the edge of the desk dreaming about the mess I would make
with his paper if my hands could get closer, if my lust and dreams
and fingertips could unravel what love is supposed to look
like.
    Nothing he says, turning to the wall feverishly
enjoying the process of ignoring me. As I wait like a lamb staring
at a gate in someone else’s farm, like a child who has been told to
stay indoors on a sunny day.
    I want you I scream, my voice so loud it shakes
the walls that have been watching us.
    I don’t want you he replies, with a gleeful
look, with a squinted hope in the corner of his eye, with a strange
obsession I keep between my legs.
    Why I ask casually knowing the answer, but
asking anyway. I thought we knew one another, I thought I
recognized something in you.
    No reason he says continuing to watch me, watch
him. As I feel smaller and smaller and smaller.
    I thought.
    Don’t think he says, as I go to touch him. It
will only make it worse.
    And we sit, me and this strange man. We sit
isolated. We sit dreaming of something better.
    I loved you, I say. Hopeful that my side will
win, my version, my perspective, my truth that I keep alone in shoe
boxes in my room, that I have written in diaries and across board
games, that I have secretly gossiped about with
strangers.
    I know he says, as if I am only water running
across his face. I know.
    I realize in that moment, what hate
is.
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    It is strange the way insignificant moments
play out in our lives, how they coach us and scare us and create
our journey.
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    Thankyou for reading my poetry. I have written
a few other poetic books about Carl Jung, Nietzsche and Freud to
describe my perception of reality. Look for them on amazon.
Otherwise have a great