Monday, September 26, 2016
Magic Hat 9.26.16
I am not Your Manhattan Girl
My first instinct is to apologize.
It is strange how I, a person who places truth on a pedestal,
weaves lies into her spirit
and waters the weeds of other’s expectations.
You have a habit of correcting me when I try to explain myself,
as if I am the clay subject of your molding
and you are an artist who makes magic out of women.
I learned long ago, morphing into another’s fantasies
only leads to heartbreak,
but your tongue spun such beautiful tales of
what I could be if I tried hard enough
and you called it love.
Your eyes shone when you stared at me.
All this time, I thought that meant I was all you ever wanted,
but you were just admiring your handiwork.
I was the tree that you dreamt of making a desk out of,
the one that you’d place in your corporate office.
When I tried to look out the window
all I would see is a skyline hidden in smog.
All I craved for was the freedom of fresh sunflower fields and an
uninterrupted night sky,
where stars were dreams I just haven’t met yet.
And all the possibilities unfolded before me like the
dandelions at my feet.
It is here I realize my babbling brook reflection was never
something that needed mending.
I was never able to meet your expectations.
I have a habit of apologizing
for things I don’t really feel sorry for.