spillingmyink

I drove home from your house, but in the back of my mind,
as I left you behind—I was still thinking of him.
For the first time, I started to think of how it all began.
Life with this view of men.
The way I treated them.
The way they treated me. The mild hypocrisy.
They are my favorite pen, that’s always running out of ink.
They are the constant water—leaking from my sink.
They are the fish I forget to feed.
They are the over priced shirt, that I don’t really need.
They are the fifty bobby pins, I misplace twelve times a year.
They are the butterflies in heights—that hold my biggest fear.
Men hold emotion, as the clouds do the rain.
They are the simple paper cut—capable of immense pain.
They are the strike of lightening, illuminating the rain.
I am the one fighting—wondering if it’s all the same.
—  letlovelightlife