I am made of matchsticks and red ribbons and tiny
sparks of Saturday-morning duvet hopes ricocheting
around my brain into a pattern of torn petals from
daisies. Lovers are destroyers of flowers, we know
this. This is why we belong under trees and in wheat
fields, letting buttercups and dandelions grow between
our toes and around our shoulders. We are made to belong.
Whoever said that a lion is made by birth was
not telling anybody the whole truth. If you would
like to know how, when you stand up, when you roar,
does it feel right? Are you brave? Only the brave can be lions.
a sheep dressing itself in fur and mane will only convince its herd
that it is delusional. You can take the lion out of the desert,
but you will never take the desert from the lion.
Anyone who thinks otherwise must know that you cannot tame what is not willing.
I am made to serve my purpose. To hold anyone who is interested
in the palm of my hands and in the chambers of my heart, to chase
comet-tail dreams over my head and pull sky tapestries over my body
when I cannot catch either. Romance is the fibre of my being and I am
willing to sacrifice limb and hair for those who make my pulse speed.
I'm a glass house of sweet nothings. One stone and I shatter to the floor.
My dearest silk-skinned friend, what kind of life is one
where each shard and fragment needs to be carefully sewn
into place after every skipped beat? Ask a lion, a lion knows
feeling and has a roar to swallow the world, a whirlwind inside
their amber eyes whilst hurricanes rage in lovers' ribcages.
tell me, then. If you were not born a lover, what would you choose to be?