Part of my poetry collection, Margins of the First Draft—a piece about the courage to feel, to love without demands, and to say it out loud.

P.S. Looking at this many years after its creation feels a little awkward—where has the drama in my writing gone? I used to have such a vivid imagination, and that 19th-century influence seems to have faded.

(Authors Note)

Expectation

So I stood there, my garments drenched

Just like when I was a child,

Standing barefoot in our garden,

With rain running down my skin

Waiting, deluged by poetry untold

Choking on words I could not make rhyme

Poetry on the Margins #9 Scribbles on the margins

Why are we scared to show our true emotions?
To tell the people that we admire
that we absolutely, without question, adore them?

Why are we afraid of being pushed aside, rejected?
Laughed at, humiliated?

Why is love often seen as something
that has to be reciprocated?
Why can't there be such a love that is
quiet, unconditional, and kind —
non-demanding?

So, now I am
just saying
that I fucking love you
and I always will.