Let it
pass. Let it pass. Why wish for something you’ll never get? Wings on your back
or a heart that can’t see you, can’t hear you knocking, can’t feel you scramble
for an entrance. Let it pass. He’ll come to you one day, unbeknownst of himself
perhaps, and you’ll know him by the clothes he wears, the way he holds his
frayed hem and pulls at his laces nervously. Until then, if then, you can only
let it pass. Let this one pass. It’s unattainable, impossible. It’s just shapes
in the distance, colours you can’t name, lovers you can’t hold. Let it pass
then roll yourself away. There is nothing you can do. There is nothing, you can
do better to yourself than wishing for his love, all the pieces of yourself you
gave to him; he ate them, and he you left standing, bleeding, barely healing,
hurting, open, stolen, pieces others would have given back; upholstered. He’s not
for you. He’s not, for you to hold yourself together, that is bold, that is
brave, and it is woman; not insane. Take aim and fire yourself forward,
warrior. Be that, the warrior. For you, love is pain. Love doesn’t love you.
Love is a name, it’s a story that’s told, something that came from the history
books, where it cannot be questioned, and none here have seen it, none now and
none now. You’re running for love like a coward, a coward would be running for
shelter from wolves, from wolves you are running for shelter and love is a wolf
and you’re running and staring at all of love’s wolves, running straight into
the pack of love’s wolves, you’re running and each of the cunning monstrosities
lure you like prostitutes, why do you run to them? Running, as fast as you can,
you can’t run much faster, you’re dying for love! You’re craving so hard that
your body is caving! Aching so much that your poor mind is breaking! Running
toward wolves! Wolves! All of it! Wolves! What’s making you do this! What’s
making you do this! What’s making you run to a pack of love’s wolves!?
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