I Write About Girls.
I write about girls —
the ones with big hearts
and soft lips made only
for kissing
I write about their wishing-well
eyes — not because they are
dark nor vacant — but because
they are indecipherable, and I cannot
ascertain to what depths their irises
will allow me to swim.
I write about girls
with broken hearts, living their
lives blinded by insecurity, when
magic and beauty flutters from
their delicate hands, in the
crevices of their swan-like necks
these girls are not mine
to gawp with a man’s eye —
they are not lustful apparitions
left to explain the empty spaces in
my bed
but they are here, pressed between
pages
I write about these
girls because
life is cruel,
these girls are just another
dream that I can
never become.
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