Stone

Over the years, I've misplaced my capacity to discern chivalry, and that spark that's forthcoming when a man carries you in the depth of his heart, when he's courting you.
 
I've tasted it before, but life makes you numb, sometimes.
 
I've forgotten what it feels like to feel the goosebumps that appear when a man touches me, or presses upon that spot, in my lower back.  
 
Certain things, just can't be unfelt, just like a lyric when it's heard. 
 
I miss that unmistakable feeling that washes over me when my lovers fingers are trailing my hips as if he were reading the secrets that I keep locked away, deep within my soul.
 
I used to be the kind of girl that was able to hold my alcohol well, and party all weekend, whilst slicing myself up with uppers to enable me to keep going. It wasn't unusual to find myself in chemical induced moments that were so wild, that even the walls blushed.
 
I know what passion feels like, and it still burns deep within, even though time is scarce the want never dwindles.  
 
Self control, is a mechanism for self preservation. It's a constant reminder in which I have to reaffirm to myself, when the urge to do otherwise strikes me.
 
That kind of fire, is what forged me, in terms of having that spring in my step.
 
I bottle up a lot of things and fall to pieces, when no one is around. Sometimes, when I'm driving with the music blaring, I'll hear a set of lyrics and the tears will just start flowing. 
 
 I'm weathered by the elements of life, and internally, there's some kind of civil war unraveling between then, here and now.
 
I struggle with my own fragility, and the resemblance of a fairytale assaults my better judgement even more so as I take everything at face value, when I'm old enough to know better. 
 
I'm not one of those women that come wrapped in a pretty wrapper, all prim and proper, without a strand of hair out of place.
 
My hair is mostly wrapped in a bun, to the side, or tucked away in a comb as whispy bits fall about my face, and tickle my nose when it's windy. I rarely wear makeup, only when I'm attending something with formal attire. 
 
Work, not so much, if at all.
 
I need routine, as it keeps me out of mischief but by the same token, I fight with myself internally for a taste of unbridled freedom.
 
I'm slightly broken in many ways, each piece akin to a mosaic. There are bits and pieces of me, scattered everywhere, if you took the time to find them.
 
I self destruct, even though I have no real reason to do so. Again, closely aligned to the internal war that unfolds.
 
It's the pain, and the way it makes me feel something, other than the nothing that might be forthcoming.
 
I wish I could peer into those hazel pools, and hear you say that I mattered to you, and that nothing else ever mattered to you, before that moment.
 
Maybe, in that moment, I'll believe that I'm not one of the living dead masked in your cast of stone, carved out from the inside out by your past loves who mistreated you.