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The woman’s tender hands grasp onto yours.
You aren’t sure whether or not she can understand you. The wrinkles in her skin bleed, red, the blood spilled on borrowed homes and fear. She speaks with a split mouth wearing borrowed clothes, and shame. The more you unravel about her country the closer her hands move, until they lay on your neck. The tender woman turns vile. She quickly becomes poisonous, like the words so hatefully thrown at her every time she speaks in her native tongue. Yet, whenever she attempts speaking [broken] English she is shattered and shunned for it. How much hate does it take to make a proud woman so ashamed in her own skin? This woman threw away her culture, for a country whose people want to appropriate it.
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When asked if he had experienced true love,
the boy with the body made of glass replied: " I wouldn't say it was true love. In fact, I'd say it was much more intimate," He paused, as though he was trying to find the right words. " The love you share with someone who is out of reach is the most painful and fulfilling feeling you'll endure. It is so passionate yet so hollow, it warrants its own classification of love." We spent countless hours in a futile attempt to fulfill our own agendas. Our bodies were mangled with the moments spent trying to untangle our own minds. The warmth of the sun hit my body at full force. Like ice, I melted. Being in love with you was so painful for me yet I couldn't get enough. I would melt every single morning if it meant I was able to spend a night in your arms. |
Ngan Lemost days the words I want to speak fail to escape my mouth. Categories
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