The part of your Sunday morning right when you wake up. When you stretch, the sun kisses your face, you roll over, and see me. And think I’m just as beautiful as the night before when I got lipstick all over you. The part when you come home from a long day of work, and dinner is waiting. The part where you lay your head in my lap, forget about the past eight hours, and everything just makes sense again. I want to be that sense of relief, knowing that you will always find sanctuary in my skin.
I want to be your go-to. Your mo’betta. The key that will lock all your insecurities.
The part where I walk into a room, and everyone is staring. Heels and head high, but still grounded. Everyone’s staring. Wondering, who I came with, who I’m meeting, who I’ll be leaving with. Then, I walk straight to you and everyone gets it. Especially us.
I want to be your inspiration. Motivation. Even the cause for a little perspiration. Hey, now.
The part where your mother grabs me to help her in the kitchen, your little brother wants to show me his new video game, and your best friend looks at the look on your face when you look at me and JUST KNOWS. The part where your favorite team wins the World Series and you hug strangers nearby. When your favorite artist comes out with a new album after being on hiatus for five years and you can listen to it without skipping any tracks. That first sip of coffee, that good night kiss. The part of you that is vulnerable, and pure. The part of you you like the most, and the reason you are a better version of you.
See, I never wanted to be your whole life. Just your favorite part. The part you can’t live without.
Credit: Written by Dear Abi | www.girlsarethenewboys.com
This was sent to me by Noelle, it’s a piece written by Warsan Shire who we believe knows us.
How far have you walked for men who’ve never held your feet in their laps?
How often have you bartered with bone, only to sell yourself short?
Why do you find the unavailable so alluring?
Where did it begin? What went wrong? And who made you feel so worthless?
If they wanted you, wouldn’t they have chosen you?
All this time, you were begging for love silently, thinking they couldn’t hear you, but they smelt it on you, you must have known that they could taste the desperate on your skin?
And what about the others that would do anything for you, why did you make them love you until you could not stand it?
How are you both of these women, both flighty and needful?
Where did you learn this, to want what does not want you?
Where did you learn this, to leave those that want to stay?
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your, doing,my darling)
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
By E.E Cummings
Disclaimer: This was not written by me. I just thought it was AH-MAZING and wanted to share. The author is unknown.
Lots of things might happen. That’s the thing about writers. They’re unpredictable. They might bring you eggs in bed for breakfast, or they might all but ignore you for days. They might bring you eggs in bed at three in the morning. Or they might wake you up for sex at three in the morning. Or make love at four in the afternoon. They might not sleep at all. Or they might sleep right through the alarm and forget to get you up for work. Or call you home from work to kill a spider. Or refuse to speak to you after finding out you’ve never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. Or spend the last of the rent money on five kinds of soap. Or sell textbooks for cash halfway through the semester. Or leave you love notes in your pockets. Or wash your pants with Post-It notes in the pockets so your laundry comes out covered in bits of wet paper. They might cry if the Post-It notes are unread all over your pants. It’s an unpredictable life. But what happens if a writer falls in love with you?
This is a little more predictable. You will find your hemp necklace with the glass mushroom pendant around the neck of someone at a bus stop in a short story. Your favorite shoes will mysteriously disappear, and show up in a poem. The watch you always wear, the watch you own but never wear, the fact that you’ve never worn a watch: they suddenly belong to characters you’ve never known. And yet they’re you. They’re not you; they’re someone else entirely, but they toss their hair like you. They use the same colloquialisms as you. They scratch their nose when they lie like you. Sometimes they will be narrators; sometimes protagonists, sometimes villains. Sometimes they will be nobodies, an unimportant, static prop. This might amuse you at first. Or confuse you. You might be bewildered when books turn into mirrors. You might try to see yourself how your beloved writer sees you when you read a poem about someone who has your middle name or prose about someone who has never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. These poems and novels and short stories, they will scatter into the wind. You will wonder if you’re wandering through the pages of some story you’ve never even read. There’s no way to know. And no way to erase it. Even if you leave, a part of you will always be left behind.
If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.
I fell for your thoughts,
the way that you said my name,
how you make me speechless
I ache to be inside your mind,
hear the whisper of every thought,
get lost in your deepest desires
I want you lying down next to me
caressing the soft curves of my face,
running your fingers down my back
I fell for you,
I ache for you
I want you.
Disclaimer: This was not written by me. Used for inspirational purposes.