I place my hands around the thickest part of my obsession and wrangle it back into submission. I can be fickle, but once I decide it’s time, it’s all over. My strength is my softness. That’s how I manage to surprise. There are demons inside of me, some of them so fully, swellingly sweet. I used to try to stab them clear through the heart but now I know better. They have a hole where the heart should be. So instead I kiss them. Hard. Wet. Until they all but melt and disappear.
You think I am cruel. You think I am fake. You think I am all the hateful things you ever imagined come to life. You think I am beautiful but I told you you don’t know a damn thing until I tell it to you straight. And good luck getting that to happen any time soon. If you thought it would be easy. If you thought it would be simple. If you thought this life or this love or this lust would sail you right off into the sunset you should reach inside that mind of yours and reevaluate the way you see the things you think you see.
As the rain begins to fall, I slide my hood over my head and wish I had a cigarette. I have these licorice sticks now that I chew on and roll between my fingers for some kind of sick stupid comfort. We have such strange solutions to the ache of loneliness because we do not recognize the way it truly feels to be alone. I don’t know why I fixate on the things I do. I don’t know why I’m not better at any of this stuff. I know writers are entirely self-possessed but even so I think I’ve got it more wrong than all the rest.
The things other people want do not interest me or at least not enough to think about much. Small droplets of water plunk down in the puddles which are beginning to form in the hollow middles of the sidewalk. One by little one, they slam together and fill all the emptiness they can find. I think of the way so many strangers have tried to fill my empty places, or even more incredibly, tried to mold them into something better. Imagine that. As if they were magicians, as if they were gods. Grasping onto all the things your lover cannot give to you and holding on to nothing for dear life.
Allison Marie Conway 
Reblogged this on The Reluctant Poet.
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🙏🏻🌹
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Always a joy and pleasure to read and share your posts with followers, My Dear! Hope you have a great day!! xoxox 😘💕🎁🌹
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Bleak
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I felt an immense sense of otherworldly peace while creating this.
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Smiles. Writing is another place.
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Oh, yes. If one can let oneself go… let that other place be whatever it is, it can be anything. Even the charmless can charm you there.
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There is hope for me yet. Smiles.
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Haha… this made me smile. 🌹🕊
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I’m glad
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🖤
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This is a gorgeous piece of poetry but getting to hear your voice narrate it on top made it even better. I was covered in shivers from the moment you started speaking> Amazing! ♥
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Oh my goodness, Chloë, I am so beyond grateful to you! I melt that you were covered in shivers. That you enjoyed so thoroughly means the absolute world to me. Thank you ever so much for taking the time. 🙏🏻♥️🌹🕊
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Thank *you* for sharing it! ♥
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Truly my pleasure. ♥️🕊
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It says Audio but I see no audio
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It’s there you have to click through to the post on my website.
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Wow I love your audio a lot, hearing you as I read the text feels like reading a novel but being able to hear the character speak so beautiful
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I’m so deeply glad to know you enjoy. Thank you ever so much. 🙏🏻🌹🍂
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The holes are there, the receptacles, the spaces. The needs and desires, and how eagerly some seek to mold themselves into the space–the spaces of others, the spaces that might validate belonging? I am alone, but I will feel less alone if I can only resolve your emptiness–if I can fill you in a way that pleases me. I never quite thought of it that way before. How many times have I donned a new cap, a new persona, a new accent–just hoping to be accepted. To be loved. Drops of rain filling the cracks in the cement, settling into the holes we all possess.
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Some are chasms, gaping wide and obvious. Yet there are some less obvious but much more plentiful as a collective … like pores on skin. 🕊
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