It’s my own fault that I’ve forgotten
what my hands feel like when they’re being held.
You can’t dig your own grave then sue the coffin maker.

I used to think loving others made up for not being loved.
Like having a heart too big to hold between two palms was a
good thing, a proud thing, a noble thing.
I used to think if I kept my head down long enough then one day
I would look up at exactly the right moment,
but never let myself wonder how I’d know that moment when it came.

When you’re only ever staring at your shoes
no one’s gonna fall in love with the top of your head.
When you’re only ever staring at your shoes
you’ll never recognize love by their toes.

Holding your own hand ever only makes your arms tired.
That doesn’t mean I haven’t kept practicing.

Love’s fingers have promised they’ll fit perfectly.
Love’s fingers haven’t tried mine on for size.

–

Wrote this for my very first poetry performance last Wednesday. I was nervous out of my mind, but it went amazingly well! I’ll write more about it soon.

The semester is winding down, thank goodness, but that also means all the final project and essay deadlines are hurtling towards me at lightning speed. Until I can breathe easy again, here’s yet another piece about hoping there’s a heart that wants yours as much as you want it.

xx,
M.

Photo taken in Soho Square, London, by the witch’s house.