I have this tendency to not feel sympathy for weakness.
No, slow down, let me finish.
I have been called a lot of things.
Enchanting, glorious, bewitching, elegant, sunshine itself, and also bitch, whore, a mistake, wicked, an accident waiting to happen.
My accident was never waiting to happen.
My accident was placed with purpose.
My accident created a flicker of zeal.
My accident taught ashes to blossom.
The real accident was countless men thinking they could get away with skipping their words of fired up pebbles across my water without me turning them into a stone cold book.
Isn’t it a wonder that I carefully apply my lipstick, hoping a man will carelessly smudge it in the dark, behind closed doors.
No, I am not saying that I wear lipstick for men.
I am saying I hope they will ruin it more gently than they ruin my trust.
I fill myself with poison because it gives my voice the reason it was looking for to speak.
I wonder how pissed fate was when she realized she couldn’t control me.
How many lightning bolts she struck inches from where I was standing.
How many gazes she casted towards me that I missed, because I was too busy looking at the sky.
How many doors she tried to lock behind me until I learned how to pick the lock.
How strange it is to know that you and I have shared the same sheets I lay in between now.
Maybe sleepless nights between covers and mattress are nothing more than fate’s revenge.