The Blood & The Bones

Her….

Her hair is darker, longer, her skin smoother as time is still her friend and her eyes hold more youth than mine.

Her lips divine, neck long and breasts flawless, her body lean, her curves perfect ..

She is a writer and simply says the right things always. Just a girl, unrooted and uninvested, she can give you adventure since there is nothing to hold her back.

And sometimes she is only parts of that. Sometimes she is your history, bookmarked over and over but you are still writing and rereading your story, not quite to the end.

In my head, she is your perfect woman and she is everywhere. She is, paradise, Utopian. Sometimes she is new and exciting and sometimes she is from your past. But she is always reaching out, tapping you on the shoulder and begging you to look back.

Me…

My hair is wild, my skin has known the sun of 39 summers and my eyes are wise. There are wrinkles and scars on my face and my heart. I haven’t been young in quite some time.

My lips have secrets and they are heavy with trying to hold back. I say the wrong thing a lot. I never knew how to not be like that.

My body is there for the taking but it has seen the war too. From giving birth to neglect, perfect is not a part of how I’m built. I am not a fantasy or untainted, I am real. I am woman.

I am not a writer but a poet and nothing is ever simple. Like putting together a puzzle, what I give is all laid out but you must connect. I am more like a home to come back to. A place to rest.

She is open and collected and clambering for your attention. I am a scattered collection of closed doors that I’m scared to have opened.

This is why I don’t attach. This is why I run. This is why I’m fucking terrified.

Tell me who would ever choose this over that?

LL