The way I think about biology is that I want to write an anatomy book but all the parts of my body are just labeled “something for you to forgive.”
Everyone knows a dog will still love its owner despite cruelty, neglect, and abuse and in this you find hope that I can still love you too.
He pushed her towards the wall,
On his neck, she breathed a sigh.
And when her hands pulled his shirt down,
Her lipstick stained his lips, made him high.
Where did the year go?
“i am a feminist” and spit
on their wounds,
drag their bodies across the earth
until they revert into mud.
The girl with that wide smile on her face and who constantly tries to spread as much positivity as she can to her peers? We don’t see her the tears she subtly tries to brush away, nor do we see the look on her face when her heart is split in two.
Poetry, like any other art, is subjective.
Maybe love wasn’t a one-time thing anymore. Maybe the books and quotes got it all wrong, it seemed.
Our past needs recognition
It needs to be acknowledged
But it doesn’t need to keep defining us.