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Shaunna Harper Shaunna Harper
Recommendations: 35

Cold Compromise


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soul mates

This is not perfection.


This is faith.


The faith of a woman in the beauty of a man.
The extinction of the fairytale,
the illumination of a long-awaited reality.
The black and white version,
devoid of drama, sans conflict,
just simplicity of affection.


She wakes the night to watch him dream
with a mind toughened to disappointment.
She knows her heart does not beat,
only aches for acceptance.
The chronic pain of a never-ending adolescence,
the still life of her eyes through a bottle,
maps of time, not of place.
A story not of a life, but of a face.
Evening sighs, turns over to the wall.
The cooler side of the pillow,
soothing the heat of fractured nightmares;
in the morning she will regret that she ever let him touch her.
She will attack her own insecurities with
the only weapon her hand can hold.


Truth.


The truth was
that she never gave him a chance.
The truth was
that she climbed so far into her own head
that she could not see how real he was.
She could have had him,
but she wanted herself too much.
The cold, coiling, selfish part of her heart
that eats up rivalry like starving beasts,
chewing on the weaker vessels beneath the skin.


He is beautiful; a man with the soul of a woman.
A friend, a lover, a saviour.
And she will throw him away like loose litter
night after noon, because the reality always comes back too soon.
And this is not make-believe.
This is faith.


Faith in a sick religion that does not need a God.
Faith in a love that will not hold her hand.
Faith in the shallowness of the pools of his skin,
where she sees her ugliness when she dares to look in.


She paints the picture of perfect love,
a surrealist scribble makes no sense to curious eyes.
Only those who do not want to see
have any hope of setting free
the fantasy of their lonely nights.
She lets them go all the time,
throws them to the wind like petals
to see them scatter at her feet.


They bleed, oozing life, washed out in the rain.
She goes back to bed with man on her mind,
teasing herself with the possibilities he might bring her.
With eyes closed, those possibilities die.
In the morning she will pull him from her head
and wish him finally dead.


It was not perfection,
and it was not make-believe.


It was faith.


Faith in another day of being herself.


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