Moulds in the business of falling in love.

You assure me that I can catch and hold your attention.

You say I’m “nice and pretty”

You tell me that you see me as a ‘free spirit’.

Am I to be gladdened, I wonder? Perhaps so, I consider politely.

I can take a compliment, but with no more than a ‘thank you’.

I can smile, and not hold a grudge against you. Neither, a corner in my heart.

I say that you don’t know how to appreciate a person, let alone a woman.

You don’t see me for my courage, my efforts to keep my hair groomed.

To have a sense of personal style, to wear the clothes that seem most like the colours of my moods.

I’d rather have you tell me that my scent reminds you of a burrow

Fresh, broken in, earthy, warm.

I’d rather learn that you are inspired by the efforts I make for my loved ones.

The lengths I go to weave their stories into my own,

Instead of keeping a count of them, reducing them to a statistic.

I’d rather hear you criticize my tendency to control, and struggle while at it,

Comment on my being guarded among strangers.

That I sometimes don’t make the effort or give you enough attention.

But that I make up for it by cooking you a warm meal.

I’d like to kick back with you on a park bench, instead of constantly being barraged-

-with gifts, feats aimed to make an impression, compliments…

Compliments so cheap, that only money can buy them,

While the soul withers and retreats.

And then you remark on my demeanor aloof.

I’ll tell you what, I don’t live for comments.

I live to be understood.

 

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