We don’t own ourselves. We don’t posses ourselves. But we don’t know that just yet. Instead, we belong to the people whom we have given pieces of ourselves to. We have trusted them with these fragile yet colorful pieces of ourselves, hoping they hold onto them for us and never let go. Never break it. Never lose it. Never destroy it. We expect, we hope, we pray they will safeguard our pieces. Nurture, comfort, and care for our pieces. Then one day, a person comes along and takes that piece of you and does everything you ever feared to it. That’s the day you realized it- you are not you, but rather the connections and interactions and markings and fittings of all the people who were ever bold enough to own a piece of you. And you thank that person. Because they make you realize your pieces should fucking belong to you and only you.
My writing is expressive and therapeutic. As human beings, we move forward from situations, people, and emotions; however, sometimes the pain and memories need to be reawakened to share in a creative way. In the hopes that the entire audience can relate and heal, the poet places his or her mind and heart in the most vulnerable state. If you over analyze, under value, misinterpret, or personalize the language, then that becomes the flaw of the reader.
Some of the greatest love stories are merely stories. They never occur and never come to fruition and never achieve closure. They are simply a myriad of possibilities, what ifs, imagination, misinterpretations, and moments of being led on. These stories never reach their fullest potential or reality and are hidden away deep inside us in a box of pain- where hopefully with time, we forget. After all, there was nothing to remember.