• _guts_ 9w

    Alert : I am out of metaphors.
    I am at a loss for metaphors, I try to delve for some in this big packet of my incomplete and raw thoughts weaving a web in my foolishly- immature brain and my little-too-brittle heart. Am I living the most dreadful nightmares of being a poet? Or is it my incompetency as a poet? Or worse, Was I never one?

    Need : To look for metaphors for the legislation over the body, the decisions, the choices, the thoughts, the voice, the soul of a women.
    When I was in love with him,

    On some mornings, when I used to wake up with my neck bruised and my stomach smooched, I used to question my consent to allow him to cover his body around my soul.
    On some afternoons, I used to question my decision to lay a little longer in bed with him, while he reached the depths of my soul trying to liberate me, but the emptiness of not knowing the reason behind my decision, made me fall into deeps depths of what seemed-hell-like.
    On some evenings, I used to question those forbidden thoughts of making love with him in the night.
    On some nights, I used to question all those curves of my body which glided against his, while we made love, am I doing right to my father. Or is this the right way to be his, questioning my existence by his side?

    When I left him for my father,

    On some mornings, when I used to miss the taste of his lip and the warmth of his soul around me, I used to question my decision to let go of him.
    On some afternoons, when I used to meet various men, my father wanted me to marry to, I used to question my silence which could never speak up for a love I wanted.
    On that one evening, when I was about to get married to my father's friend's son, when the mehndi of his name didn't shine in my hands, I questioned my soul for not truly belonging to my father's decision and his respect inthe society.
    On the night of my marriage, I questioned my love for him and my respect for my father's name, was I not able to love him the way I should? Or did I blur the virginity I owed only to one person, my father?

    But on some very special moments,
    On the eighth day of the week, I question myself some unanswerable questions, which only I have an answer to.
    Can I make love with him and not be the reason of bringing disrespect to my father?
    Can I owe my self and my virginity to my ownself?
    Can I be both his and my father's and yet belong to none?
    Can I be no ones' and yet belong to both?
    Can I be me, no matter the part of the day, the longitude and latitude I am at, No matter the people I am surrounded with?

    Is it my incompetency as a poet? Or so is the nature of a women?
    ©_guts

    P.s. maybe I was never a poet.
    P.c. to its rightful owner (thanks for the image @_aradhya )

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    We are never very far from those we hate. For this very reason, we shall never be truly close to those we love.
    - Albert Sánchez Piñol, Cold Skin
    ©_guts