The Lace Bra

It should take a lot of time to unfasten a lace bra. When you can longer turn back the clock and change your mind about plying open a can of worms, you should definitely try for a slow beginning to an end. I sound grim, I know. It’s all that love growing cold inside my liver, turning slightly green as it pushes past the gallbladder, bouncing right across onto the pancreas. It could also be the fear redefining the terms of my new found courage to date again. I date again only because I tell myself I am courageous now, I can take the heat.

But I know I have no business waving around lace bras as fodder for a mind riddled with conundrums about me, wondering whether I am worth the trouble or if trouble is all there is to me. Low self esteem is also a possible culprit if we must round up the usual suspects. This whole song and dance reeks of a lack of something as fundamental as esteem in the self, the only decider in matters as important as who and how to love.

I wish I were perfect or wiser at least; that way I’d be able to leave the lace bra in the “big girl box” where it belongs and promptly wait for the day it would be of great use, like on my wedding night. I’m not sure if I want to keep opening cans of worms with this bra. I’ve had my share of nasty surprises and really, really should stop feigning surprise already. At this rate what I wish could happen and what I manifest are never going to find themselves parallel one another, not even from two different astral planes.

No mind- I still believe in love. And in time all things heal by the hand of Love. My hope is that Love forgives me again for desiring so badly to wield this sexy, sexy lace bra at it again. I don’t know what I am doing but I want you to stay. I desire a deeper connection with you, a friendship that can’t be wished away because it is based on superficial things. But it’s been so long since Love asked for my friendship that I no longer know how to not bargain lace bras for its attention. And this lace bra? I have no qualms swapping it for a warm hand of friendship if offered, thank you.

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I Hate It

Now, the following thoughts are not to be taken as an account of my life. Some of the feelings I express here are mine and real; a great deal of what I’ve written here was inspired by those feelings. That said, thank you for reading.

alone

I Hate It.

I hate it when after a stormy night the sun wakes up brighter and more cheerful, adamant to annoy me with its brilliance and jauntiness. I hate it because I am still feeling blue, I couldn’t sleep a wink and my eyes are awfully puffed up from bursting into tears every hour of the night.

I hate it when I see you smiling very dearly and sincerely, eyes beaming with indifference as if you are mimicking that after-the-storm sun that I hate so much. You are smiling because you are genuinely happy, happy that you got me where you wanted me, glad to still have your life intact.

While mine falls apart with each passing moment, you beam on like the ray of Hope others have come to believe you to be. Man of the people, kissing on babies and helping old folk cross the road. Sharing your revolutionary message of hope with thousands who will hear it. I wonder how many know the words you use in your television interviews and on social media are mine. Verbatim.

I hate the grey suit you wore in the publicity picture you took for the press. You once told me your ex had liked to pick grey suits for you, even though she knew you hate grey. You said grey made you feel old, habitual and uninteresting and that you wanted everyone to know, just as I did, that you were anything but. You then kissed me with such emotion it took my breath away, told me no one knew or understood you the way I did. I hate that suit more than you ever did. Seeing you in it today makes me wonder who the heck is picking your suits now.

I hate that you haven’t had the decency to dump me. Mr On-Your-Honour has failed to honour a commitment he never meant to make. You avoid my calls and return my request for    courtesy with deafening silence. Tell me, what kind of man decides who exists and who is invisible? I cannot understand any of it and I hate it.