Could you be?

I see you walk in.
I'm sitting in the corner.
You sit at a table directly in my line of vision.

I look at you and wonder:
Will you be the one to love me?

Will you love the humor in me?
The bile?
The shame?
the pride?
Will you love my scars?
the broken spots?
the things decayed?
the hope?
my violent temper?
my brilliance?
the anorexic in me?
the martyr in me?
the revolutionary?
the coward?
the mother?

Will you appreciate my sex?
my devotion?
my compassion?
my hatred?
my sadness?

Will you respect my autonomy?
my culture?
my history?
my secrets?
my barriers?
my pain?
my joy?

Will you need my presence?
my touch?
my voice?
my heart?
my strength?
my soul?

Will you fight for my affection?
my respect?
my life?
my honor?

Will you be the one to love me?

You look up.
A glance.
There is a smile.
A shift in weight.

You are not the one.

I go back to my book, and wait for yet another day.






(November 6th)