Wondering why I feel a part of, but are not enough for, becomes suffocating and oppressive. Something pure was converted into a caustic bondage, after I chose to keep my mouth closed shut. He can, and she can, and they can profess, because it is the only poetry love can comprehend. I, however, am too vain, too restless, too attached to my own freedom to ever openly speak with you in a way that honors my heart’s desires. I am sickened by surrender and vulnerability. But if I could leave cuntery behind. If I could stop punishing myself for what is part of our nature to develop. Well, then it would not matter if I ever gained your affection, because the freedom of such an expression would still elevate me to dizzying heights. I would gain some invisible diadem that would bring back everything I have ever lost.
If flattery is required to prove sincerity of emotion, I could start with the obvious: The spark you possess, but cannot seem to master. Your grating and unrefined tongue, which still produces the most beautiful American accent I have ever heard.
The reality is, that there are no reasons for my affection. We invent to rationalize. Noble blood, or peasant lot, we pursue with our hearts, and pray the eyes will prevent a stumble