Vulnerability
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Rewriting our historyrequires more,more than we want,than we need,to discover that fateis more mercifulthan we thought.Our expressions betraysuch pain that doesn’t dieunless we hideunder a curtainof stark gray.To be neutralin the gift of consequence,within this wide swath,grants us more bloodto stain our fingers.We must be honestnot for a crowd,but for the gardenthat begs to burst…
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Never took a chanceto offer upall I’ve given into,to loosen teardropsbegging to be free.I’ve landed only stoneson hard floors,choosing to keep tightthis throat, the wordsI want someone,besides myselfto hear.Hear me when I hearwhat my heartbeats fear,paralyzing mein a constant intakeof suffocating doubt.I dream what I’ve seen,of ghosts in hallways,when a star goes dark,as a face…
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Blistering, thorough,concealing our remainsin the hushof fallen ash.We wanted deliveryof our remorse,while wishing for a floodfor all we nourished.We couldn’t have both,drifting sideways,deciding in our waythat our eternityis our sentencing.The light we extinguished,the presentation we dissolvedturned us into forever,in the ever-approaching memoryin what leeches us.These sounds are fire,our worship of a timewe believed we were…
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“Not the love, but the trust, that quits its breath. For nothing hurts more of the ended romance, than knowing we still love them. Such means, that not love, but the trust, always dies. We love them, still remaining hurt, though our trust, our closeness, is now the parting. For as love dwells in the…
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“Why would any woman state that she is an ‘object’ of beauty, when no object can be beautiful? It is a contradiction, in such a sense, when to be an object makes a person not a human. Just as the artwork is given life through not its perception, though in its identification to being recognizable…
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“Not one person is special to the reflection of themselves. For the only time a person is deemed as such, is through another person’s gaze. We are all vulnerable, until we are lifted by another person’s arms, shown that we are special through their eyes. Were there to be the last person to live in…
Modern Romanticism 