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?


Signs of a Struggle

Is it not befitting to mourn what I lost,
when I never once fought to keep anything?
I was always too fragile for the fight,

So, at the first the hint of trouble, I packed up my heart
and my record collection, and
I went on my way.

Never any signs of a struggle,
yet, I reduced love, after love,
to rubble.

My heart lies in
ruins; a victim of my own

But a victim, nonetheless.

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.


I will never regret loving him.

I regret the betrayal;
the lies I forced down my own throat
the years I devoted to the pursuit of convincing myself
we were… he was …  I…

Such a beautiful fantasy; such an ugly lie.

Yet, infinitely easier to swallow
than the truth.