I am not the woman who knows how to be perfect. I tried, I guess for a while, but it wasn’t worth it. I don’t know how not to make mistakes, and be anything other than crazier than the waking day, and my, oh my, that better be okay..
I’m not always pretty, because I don’t need to be. Sometimes I’d rather be witty, and take pity on men who fall on bended knee.. Perhaps not for me, yet still not stealing the glories, that I have etched into my skin, long before men, with their lust, and issues with trust were ever a thing..
You cannot hang me up like a trophy, because the prize is not with me, but it belongs to eternity, the ethereal realm of thoughts stream..
I am messy, and impractical, and silly, and nervous, and strange, and a little deranged because I have a whole world to save, no ones to blame,
maybe the most high..
I have to die every other week, though full of morbidity, it is not as bleak as it seems, only so I can be reborn and turn painful burns into eloquent poetry, and teachings of spirituality.
I am possibly not the perfect spouse. Sometimes I stay in the house for hours on end, but if you want to be my friend, I guess, I own a few hours to lend..
But afterward, when my issues of insecurity, and inferiority, and abandonment settle in, you’d better not buy a ring…
So, imperfect, what a thing.
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