Wait

And still,
I wait.
Undone by the chasm
you left in your wake.
With regret, I wait.
Sorrow, my old friend,
the only company I keep,
torments me with the noise
of all the things
that went unsaid.
I wait,
while unremarkable days
merge into endless nights –
one indistinguishable
from the other,
amounting to the sum of
the months and the years
they bleed in to.
I wait,
Yet the shift between light and dark
is the only evidence
that life
moves on without me.
Without we,
us,
plural,
I wait.
There is nothing more
to do, for
you have trapped me
in this moment,
in love.
Suspended here,
I wait…
I wait
and I hope
and I bargain with beings I don’t
believe in
for a love I don’t belong in.
I wait,
knowing all that will ever
come back to me
is the truth – ugly
and cruel,
to tell me that
I am a fool.

It says, ‘let it be, silly girl.’

Yet still,
I wait.
I have,
and I will.
Always.
I would wait for you
through
endless lifetimes.
Gravity, pulling me through years
with makeshift lovers
and memories of you,
I’ll wait, not knowing
if it will all, in the end,
be in vain; wondering
if you are in some
other place
or some
other time,
still wondering;
still believing;
still waiting,
for me to come back to you too.

  – Kellie Wilson

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I’m not for everyone

I’m not for everyone, and that, my dear, is my greatest asset. I won’t transform myself to match the colour of this connection.  My noise won’t be muted to suit your needs. Nor will I seek to make myself less… because you like girls with small waists and smaller opinions.  I do not exist to be something you desire.  I will not pour myself into the cracks of your own self-worth, to fill the insecurities that last girl left behind.

I’m not for everyone. I have a filthy mind and an even dirtier mouth and I won’t be censored by your disapproval.  I am unapologetically me.  It’s been my greatest act of rebellion and my hardest-fought victory that I consider myself all of the women I’ve ever wanted to be.  I am the sum of every unsavoury encounter; the product of each choice or mistake I’ve ever made. You see, what you consider to be my baggage, I know is my most valuable treasure.

I’m not for everyone. I love with a completeness that makes lesser men cower.  I love with a force you will never harness.  So don’t try. No cages, no clipped wings.  But the price of such ferocity means neither of us will come out unscathed. With me, there are no half measures.  All in or all out.

I’m not for everyone. I’m not for you. But that doesn’t mean you get to decide how ‘enough’ I am.  I refuse to give you that power. I define my own standards; I measure my own worth. Your estimation of me is as irrelevant as it is unsolicited. My life is not fair game, my body is not a democracy.  Baby, you do not get a say.  The only opinion of me that matters, is my own.

I’m not for everyone.  But for one, I am everything.

 – k.w

The Walk

I’d walk her into the ocean with her pockets stuffed with stones if she said that was where her happiness lived.  I don’t know if that makes me the greatest of friends or the worst. But I’d go with her, wherever she wandered, without reservation or reproach.

She doesn’t need me to tell her what to do; how to live; who to be. She simply needs to be loved. That’s what I do. I love her without restriction.  No stipulation, no prerequisite, no request for reciprocity.  But she does – she loves me that way too. Because her soul and mine are the same.

For as long as there is life in us, no matter who joins us on the way, she and I will be together; side-by-side.

We will walk each other home.

This Woman

This Woman

Soulmates exist in many different forms.  

For E, with love. x 

This woman is a poem.

Yet she has a mind so remarkable;
so exquisitely sharp and complex,
no stanza could frame,
So uncommon,
no verse, no phrase, nor clever metaphor,
could quite capture

She is a song.

Her soul sings to me,
her voice emanates from deep
within myself.
The melody she lives;
obscure notes –
reflections of my life, my despair, my joy.
Resonating in my bones.
Rhythmic.
In time.
Our hearts, synchronised clocks.

She is a warrior.

She is formidable with a strength only ever known
to a woman that raised her babies
on her own
and fearless.
But this steel belies
her paper heart,
crumpled and torn;
unrecognisable
to the first boy she gifted it to.
Damaged and disfigured
from each time
she had to put its spent remains back together
again.
And the pieces never went back the same.
No,
she took the pain and somehow made it
beautiful.

But I could weep
that she cannot see herself through my eyes;
that she measures her worth
by the ones who left;
every lie she believed is a benchmark;
each betrayal, a measuring stick,
of what it is that she considers
her due.

And if my darling friend,
should ever find herself abandoned and alone,
with nothing but a sea of notions
of how she could have been
better; more desirable; more deserving of his love,
I will be there,
to show her
that she is loved –
beyond expression –
not for what she isn’t,
but for every glorious, broken,
wonderful, fragile part of her.

And I will remind her that
even when the world doesn’t see it,

She is enough.

She is everything.

This woman is a poem.