To every last one of you…

To every last one of you that
lured my reluctant heart out
from a place of no danger.
Every one of you
that sweet-talked your way
through cracks in my resistance
with your pretty notions of always.
You, who coaxed down my walls;
took a sledgehammer to the
only defence I could muster
with promises of love in spite
of all of me.
To every last one of you
that encouraged me to want
for something beyond my reach –
who made me believe it
was all possible;
had me hooked,
then walked away like it was nothing at all –
like I was nothing at all.
Like you didn’t owe me a damn thing…

Fuck you for that.


I want you…

When I said ‘I want you’, what I meant was this:

I want early mornings that bleed into hazy afternoons where time doesn’t exist. I want sandwiches on the grass in my lunch break. I want Saturdays and supermarkets and incredulity that I buy my mango already chopped. I want late nights and hotel bars with tumblers of Old Fashioned, hot in our throats. I want breakfast in Paris, or breakfast on a Sunday or arguments about not fucking eating breakfast. I want to slow dance, with wine thick in our veins. I want pillow talk. I want the truth. I want you to tell me all of the things you think I don’t want to know.  I want to laugh at bad movies and to read aloud to you. I want to fall in love with your words but still correct your grammar. I want in-jokes and your attempts at a northern accent. I want to try the food you ordered, because you always make the better choice. I want to learn to speak Italian and how to cook pasta with you. I want bank holiday Mondays. And Cinco de Mayos – I want a diary full of anniversaries of the first moments we share. I want to wake up, realising we fell asleep holding hands again. I want one dessert and two forks, although one will do. I want to know what you want before you know. I want you to know me that way too. I want your words and your trust and your silence. I want to explore with you; to get lost with you. I want to protect you. I want love without limits that blurs the boundaries of our very souls; one that moves us through time. I want your body on mine; to know you with an intimacy we can hardly conceive. I want to be all the things you need. I want ‘everyday’. I want every day. I want family. I want a place to belong. I want to be the one you come home to. I want you to hear what I really say, when fear stifles my words. I want you to see my walls are to protect myself, not to keep you out. I want you to help me take them down, brick-by-brick. I want our love to be as necessary yet instinctive as breathing.

I want you. What part of that wasn’t I clear about?

That kind of love

Mine isn’t the type that takes you under.  This pain is not the sort that’ll eat you alive – the all-consuming, coeur fou.

It’s not that kind of pain, because it wasn’t that kind of love. No, mine is constant; the sort of pain that sits behind your ribs.
It waits patiently for a moment to catch you unaware; to remind you it never left. It has a dullness,  a darkness, to its ache.
In the background and in the spaces between seconds, making itself known.
Just enough,
that I am still on my feet.
Just enough,
that I never forget it’s there.
It churns, perpetually away in the pit of my gut and every now and again, it crawls up into my throat and tries to choke me.

I wish it would –

I wish it would take me or leave me.
But it never does.
It never will.

It’s not that kind of pain.
 It wasn’t that kind of love.

 – Kellie Wilson