The raw emotions of a woman Read Online Free Page B

people constantly pass amongst themselves, the
five people who are good enough. And the words we exchange sting as
we dance along the moments in time, as we pray among the rhythm of
a simple day that has stretched longer than it used to, but we
remain beside one another, in this paradox of what we used to be
but now what we can’t accept, what is forbidden and we walk on tip
toes about it. And we talk as if we know love, but we don’t, we
only know what other people have brought back from the books they
have read and the conversations they have had with angels, but we
pretend anyways to get closer, to find the common ground of so, so
and okay, and half boredom in a holey temple. We want to pretend to
know one another so well so when the ribbons come to tie us
together to explain God or whoever or a servant that is brave, that
it will explain why we loved one another on a strange day, when the
wind had stopped moving and our only dreams were of paradise in a
guilt stricken dead end, waiting for the walls to cave
in.
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    Fantasies
    Deep inside there is a lost voice, a hopeless cause of those
who it sees through a narrow slit, a lets begin again as we dance
to the same tune we have always played around in, the endless
vibration of a life, of a person’s heart. And we dance and smile as
we remember the way the words rose to meet one another, the voice
on the other side as we played along with the mystery assigning
blame and purpose and re-destroying our actions for new choices,
new beliefs, new bodies, running and searching for the same
faces.
    There is another lost cause will say the men on
an adventure, kissing one too many women, thinking one too many of
the same thoughts that have created bricks instead of doorways.
There will be another you, once this you is lost, they say casually
like sunshine on a rainy day, like a broken arm on a boy who jumped
too high on his bed. There will always be another way to be
perfect, and we believe him, these mystery men with perfect vision
who ignite lust and passion with a drop of sweat, with an inner
belief in beauty even if they are ugly on the inside, and we run to
them as if they are sunshine and the answer for internal suffering,
controlling doorways and mysteries, and we laugh when we realize
the men we loved were never real men but fantasies. But pretend
men, monsters we created during dreams about being alive, but
really we were asleep when we met them. And all the courage it took
for us to change, to look someone in the eye, to look beautiful
enough in a summer’s dress, was just to touch a cloud in a blue sky
that was 300 feet off the ground.
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    Womanhood
    There is often a darkness inside of an eye that catches the
sun. It blinks to see clearly but through the tears and the rust
and the glimmer on metal tables, there is nothing but an unusual
reflection. It is a strange world when the women began to emulate
men. Become them with every footprint and sly remark, with the
cutting judgments as they attempt to bestow a sense of
revenge.
    “There are never enough people,” will yell the
conservatives as they pile on the births as a way of making
everyone happy, one more mouth to feed, thought to have. A person
with a passionate drop on their finger as they run from face to
face to face, force feeding from their hands.
    And inside the womanhood are children becoming
compliant alliances, witnesses and detectives, eyes that know the
truths of what powerlessness feel like, what it feels like to love
a man who is always in control with only a sense of superficial
experiences to navigate the deep waters of belief and
emotion.
    Inside is an innocent child who dresses up in
clothes waiting to wake up one day and be in a woman’s shoes, to
hurt like she does, to love like she does in a world titled to the
left with all the game pieces falling off the table. And you tell
the eyes that watch you like dew on a flower, you tell them how
lovely it is to be an adult, how beautiful it is to