Writing About Something Other Than You
I’m going to write about something other than you,
than pining after someone who can’t even muster up enough effort to get to know me, to want me so much that you would stop playing these games and make it real.
I’m writing about something else.
How when I walk down a sidewalk I notice all the cracks
and instead of stepping over them like I used to,
I step right on them.
Instead of writing about you, I’ll remember that I have plans,
and none of them involve waiting on you to make up your mind.
Instead of writing about you I’m going to remember that life doesn’t wait for no one and I refuse to fall into your web of what ifs, maybes and half truths.
I don’t know how the playing pieces on your board all look like broken hearts
and I sure as hell am not picking that shit up.
But I digress, this isn’t going to be about you.
I’m going to write about something other than your possibility that isn’t going to happen.
I’m going to write about how I step on the cracks in the sidewalk because I want to tempt fate. To remind myself that I am the master of my life and nobody can maneuver my life the way I can.
I want to make the world come to me in my dreams like it used to when I would dream on fire. When I wasn’t worried about your lips or what was on your mind, or why you didn’t text me back. Again.
But this isn’t about you, it’s about that woman who makes portraits in her mind filled with words to describe what she sees- when there aren’t enough words in the world to make what she feels come to life as beautiful as what she feels in that moment.
I will write about how when I dream on fire, I feel the burning in my own body and I make myself wait on me. On my own timing, to let that taught wire of need burst, because I make it so.
I don’t wait on lame promises.
I make my own promises.
I feed my own flame.
And goddamn it’s fucking bright.
It’s hot to touch
and nobody can do me like me.
Because I am a goddamn masterpiece and I respect myself enough to know when something is holy, when something deserves praise, and after so many lost years, blind to my own worth that used to only come from between what I thought were broken thighs, I now see that just because someone broke in doesn’t mean I’m broken.
It’s time to put the paint brush down and stare at the beauty of what is.
And I am.
I am here, and I burn for something far greater than what you won’t give.
But this isn’t about you.
This is about me. And it’s about goddamn time.