
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.
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.
