Yin and Yang,
the two sides of me,
A girl of brown, red and gold,
The gold in me remaining unrusted, raw like the metal,
Whole red heart in me,, pulp like plums, rich in purple, rich in its flesh, so sweet in its many layers,
a pounding ball of flesh, unfinished in its creation by the All Mighty,
or rather a gift from my mother, the gift of an unloved heart,
The brown in me, an ode to ancestral pain passed down through the palms of women,
hands gifting sorrow, nails gifting prayers to a God that stopped listening, palms over mouths to stop the crying, suffocating, silenced,
They stopped listening, painting tails and portraits from only what they see,
I observe, read upon their minds, try to understand my own eyes,
Tunnel Vision, I apologise for them, for their forgiveness, to atleast keep them at peace,
I find the balance of the scales in which libra weighs, the epitome of my existence,
One, in which the heart is veiled, in effort to grieve the loss off life, to protect the flesh beneath thats been hurt over and over,
I should not be able to love again yet,
Yet the other remains unveiled, having the sun engrave its mark onto it, burning, beating, breathing,
The burning ambush of wildfire, spreading
The heart in its strife to live, in its strife to explore,
I play them both, as if puppets on strings, I pull and push to observe the effects,
I fall naive to romantic love, a pathetic word to use in excess of emotion,
An observed feeling, in which there is an inner ache,
One not eased by distraction, one must just feel, forgive and forget,
This is not lust, this is a yearning, a ferocious hunger,
Winter has bought out my desire of warmth,
this wanting, and not wanting,
I feel my mind spinning like a yo-yo,
Other days, I wish to be alone,
Confidently lost, in this miriad of continents,
Despite this craving,
I know very well that none of them can take me,
They are not daring enough,
They could never,
Only awakening parts of me,
never to fulfill,
So I water myself every morning,
As if I was a growing plant,
A ritual to dampen the burning fire that I awake to,
They must be sinners to awaken the wolf,
Why awaken the wolf, if not to dance with her?
I cannot tell if they are afraid,
of just pathetic,
Bastard boys,
Even the Men are dogs.