A Life Wasted and Lived

I'm living a wasted life. You know why nature made women so tender, so beautiful? Because she holds creation within her, carries it. A woman is the very image of love itself. But when she becomes something other than love—when she ceases to embody it—then chaos enters the world. My feminist ideals have never brought me happiness, only added to my burden of pain. Because when a woman is no longer the vessel of love, she becomes nothing but an object of consumption.

I wanted an independent life, a self-reliant one. I got my freedom, but I forgot the necessity of love. When I remember you, for the first time I feel the urge to love. But in reality, when I come close, there is only flesh, touch, desire—no separate time for love, no depth of feeling. Everyone I've ever wanted to love, I've never truly had.

Like this: I wish you would lie in my lap. I'd run my fingers gently through your hair. I want to kiss your cheek a thousand times, want to do so much more. But you don't want any of it. Everyone wants different things. So from a distance I love alone—without expectation, simply in my own way.