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literature
The Question
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Literature Text
I question if I am capable of genuinely loving again. The past makes me doubt that I even have the capacity. I shut my eyes to remember, but all I see is what was ravaged.
I look past the puddles of melted ice cream, the scrapped bloody knees, and my tattered pink sundress. I wiggle my toes and clasp my hands, squirming, as I confront the truth: my innocence wasn't stolen; it was discarded, in pursuit of a dream that was seemingly made of more than plastic Barbie dream houses and cotton candy mountains. Blinded by naivety I danced off a cliff, twirling to the simple melodies of the summer birds, reaching for a hand that did not reach for mine, and discovering that my dreams were made of little more than make-believe and fairy dust.
After the plummet, I picked myself up, pushed my cork screw curly blonde hair back into my tousled pony tail with dusty fingers. I did not want to wake up from my Disney princess dreams. My awakening was not with a gentle, spell-breaking true love's kiss, it was with a collision of salty anguish and acidic proverbs. For me, love did not domineer over evil. The good did not vanquish the wicked. Lines were drawn in the sand and he wasn't fighting for the same victory as me.
I had thrown my arms around love; I stretched my arms and stood on my tip-toes attempting to absorb every bit of it. I never envisaged its dual nature: love brings ecstasy and affliction, both too overwhelming to imbibe.
How clever he was, whispering to me promises of sprinkles and whip cream, something I could never resist. His sugar coated tongue left my defenses naked, wanting to soak him up through my begging, porous skin. Now my sanctity is compromised. Even I was fallible to a faulty covenant.
As I look into your guileless eyes, the memories wane and the pain withers. His destruction of my candidness has not left me without vivacity or without receptivity. Cynicism will not monopolize my purity. My youth shall not retrograde.
I question if I am capable of genuinely loving again, and you might be my answer.
I look past the puddles of melted ice cream, the scrapped bloody knees, and my tattered pink sundress. I wiggle my toes and clasp my hands, squirming, as I confront the truth: my innocence wasn't stolen; it was discarded, in pursuit of a dream that was seemingly made of more than plastic Barbie dream houses and cotton candy mountains. Blinded by naivety I danced off a cliff, twirling to the simple melodies of the summer birds, reaching for a hand that did not reach for mine, and discovering that my dreams were made of little more than make-believe and fairy dust.
After the plummet, I picked myself up, pushed my cork screw curly blonde hair back into my tousled pony tail with dusty fingers. I did not want to wake up from my Disney princess dreams. My awakening was not with a gentle, spell-breaking true love's kiss, it was with a collision of salty anguish and acidic proverbs. For me, love did not domineer over evil. The good did not vanquish the wicked. Lines were drawn in the sand and he wasn't fighting for the same victory as me.
I had thrown my arms around love; I stretched my arms and stood on my tip-toes attempting to absorb every bit of it. I never envisaged its dual nature: love brings ecstasy and affliction, both too overwhelming to imbibe.
How clever he was, whispering to me promises of sprinkles and whip cream, something I could never resist. His sugar coated tongue left my defenses naked, wanting to soak him up through my begging, porous skin. Now my sanctity is compromised. Even I was fallible to a faulty covenant.
As I look into your guileless eyes, the memories wane and the pain withers. His destruction of my candidness has not left me without vivacity or without receptivity. Cynicism will not monopolize my purity. My youth shall not retrograde.
I question if I am capable of genuinely loving again, and you might be my answer.
Playing with my writing style.
© 2010 - 2024 txanchika
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That is all <3
That is all <3