Perhaps it's our restless stubbornness that exhausts every possibility of a budding progress, how we're never at ease anywhere
Perhaps it's our inability to say yes, or no, ruffled so horribly within the tightening circles of indecisive maybes
Perhaps it's our aloofness, confining us to narrow fragments of sentences, that revolt against us speaking our own minds
Perhaps it's the burdening questions, we ask in the form of prayers; outstretched prayers yearning for answers to come in one day, embraced in arms wide open
Perhaps it's our spray of sadness, incurable, we learned so well how to carry it, we balance our weight with it, it's a part of us, a comfort
Perhaps it's the names of men, before you, names carved upon our soft skins, burying graveyards of memories, it's why we can't trust you, not fully, not quite, not yet
Perhaps it's our rash anger, so vengeful towards you, a knot knitted with fear, a knot tied so close to our heaving chests, we'd long forgotten how to breathe without it
Perhaps it's our deep need to be needed, we leap, we throw ourselves into the infinite nothingness of man, that swallows us gladly, it's why we're sometimes emptier around you
Perhaps it's our fathers, the first men who sheltered us, from a world of madness, we plead, then enslave ourselves to bring joy to
Perhaps it's our mothers, who never taught us that men will discolor our loyalties to ourselves, and how we will remain seated for a life of bitter tears and compromise
Perhaps it's the word love, that bandaid; the one we heard too often, in a paralyzing downfall of a tragic marriage, it's why we can't help but doubt it
Perhaps it's our obsession with the small details, that impregnate our desire to build a home for you, don't you know that's what our wombs are made of?
Perhaps it's our apologies to the unusual days, when intimacy is the enemy, and loneliness got here first, you can only wait your turn
Perhaps it's our bodies, crying blood every month, to give air to a world that lacks life in itself, we think we can still save it
Perhaps it's our suffering, so unnecessary you claim, and how we abandon ourselves to the boundlessness of it's heat waves
Perhaps it's the cruel pain, resting in our beds, that cold crowded space in between you and a lasting solitude
Perhaps it's our unresolved issues, shaping a shadow of a hard past, always, always one sneaky step ahead of you
Perhaps it's the tension birthed, inside generations of women, seeking perfection, gripping a glass image, so fragile and shaky in dismay
Perhaps it's how we hide our insecurities, self-consciously, how we silence the twist&turn, to make a room nursing yours
Perhaps it's the flowers blooming innocent promises, outside the locks of our young hearts, torn one after the other, one after the other, with no regard
Perhaps it's the dampness of disappointments, the dead-ends of conversations, the perpetual weariness; the signs we so wholeheartedly refuse to see
The signs we teach ourselves to misread
Perhaps...
Perhaps we don't really know half of what we think we know
