I had a habit of wishing for things I couldn’t have. There was a particular guy who fell into this category. We had a very frank conversation one night after work in which he told me he couldn’t offer me anything other than his friendship. It was the right choice, for many reasons, even though I didn’t want to see it at the time. I’m not sure I’ve been cured of the malady, but at least the things I can’t have no longer take up so much of my emotional energy.

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It would be easier

To be his plaything

Than have a thinking, feeling heart.

Then his fire would not burn me

Cause me to sear inside

For his returned vow of love, in faith.

If I were a lioness

Or a wild mare

Then I wouldn’t put myself

In any position to be the

Gentle butterfly in his

Gruff hands.

It would be far better

for me to be a flower

In his window box

Than a rose on the collar

Of his freshly pressed shirt.

A flower never picked

Dies of its own will

Not by the hand of the one who cuts it.

Yes, I would have been much happier

Being his servant than his friend

For if I was bound to him

He would ask anything and everything of me

Then my thinking, feeling heart

Wouldn’t be burned by his fire,

The want of his

Returned vow of love, in faith.