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 an English 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?

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So, be sad

I know you hurt.

So, be sad.

You could seethe and rage until the pain bleeds out through your eyes, like acid, eating away at your flesh until there’s nothing of you left.  Except, of course, the thing that hurts.

You could scream and fight and take a match to every last petrol-soaked thing that is good in your world.  You could take everyone down; forcing them to get a taste of the poison you are drowning in. Because if everyone’s ruined, then nobody is, right?

But when you’re stood in the wasteland of your life, amidst the derelict lovers and the ashes of the souls you sacrificed in the name of … what?  that hurt will be the only thing that survived.

Stop fighting, Love.

If it hurts, be sad.

Let sadness take you.  Invite it in like a welcome friend.  Let it seep in through every pore and make a home in your bones.  Let it fill you so full that most people won’t even notice, except the ones with sadness in them too.  They are the ones who will tell you that your melancholy eyes are the most beautiful thing they’ve ever seen.

If you’re hurt, be sad.  Because one day, once that pain has burned itself out, the sadness will have slipped away without so much as a goodbye. And you’ll forget to remember it was there… at least for a while until you stumble across something it left behind.  But even then, it will be fleeting.  An echo of a feeling.

My love, don’t you know… nothing lasts forever.

So be sad.

It won’t destroy you.

Only you will destroy yourself,
if you seek to escape it.

k.w

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.

Nothing

I often wondered why you would ask the same questions
over and over.

What do you want? Do you know what you want?

Could you taste the lies on my lips?
Or perhaps it was the stench of omission
that hung heavy in the air?
Either way, you knew I was hiding.
So you asked.
Repeatedly.
Until you didn’t ask again.

Chances that slipped through hands too unsure to take them.

Words that did not belong to me filled the gulf between us,
while the truth was held hostage by my own fear;
the fear that my happiness depended on you.

What do you want? Do you know what you want?

 Darling, I knew.  And you knew it too.  It was there,
between every line I spoke.
Why did I have to say it out loud?

Time and again my reply, generic and safe,
was limited to what I thought was possible;
to what I thought you would be to me;

…limited to what I thought I was worth.

There’s no coincidence that I ended up with
nothing.

– k.w

What it was like, loving you

Describing what it was like, loving you
is akin to describing a dream.
I wake, overflowing with something like happiness:
a strange blend of exhilarated contentment.
But it’s fleeting: trickles away within seconds
as I hurl towards consciousness and so far away
from the thing that I don’t even know
that I want.

That I need.

I try desperately to linger there in those seconds,
clutching to shapes and shadows,
trying to make them out –
to liken them to something that exists in this world –
Something my normative brain might be able understand.
But it’s like trying to capture  smoke –
it disappears as soon as I my mind tries to grasp it.
I’m left confused, with just an indistinct sensation
that everything I ever needed was there,
but I couldn’t figure out exactly what it was.
You see, I dream in light and colours and shapes and warmth
and faces that smile and hands that touch.

And I dream in feelings.

But not the kind you can ascribe language to.
I could try.
People forever invent words to say
what cannot otherwise be spoken.

énouement; onism; jouska; avenoir…

But even then, theses are just words to describe more words,
and the problem with words is that they are finite.
And my dreams are limitless.
As was my love for you.

Don’t ask me to describe it.

There is no language that exists to describe
what I live in dreams.

And there is no language that exists to describe
what it was like,
loving you.

Maybe
it was a
dream.

K.W.