...And I still stay as just a ring on your middle finger.





(God, make all these doubts go away)

If you’re using me as one more brick to your happiness then . . .just be careful, don’t trap over me, ‘cause I’m a big, old, wrinkly root of an oak tree breaking free from my motherland.
If you’re neglecting me for justifying your masochistic tendencies, you’re contradicting yourself. then no more word about happiness. then you’re expelled from the coalition of sunflower people. and I’m there to understand you.
If the needs and joys of your unborn children make you sweat in your nightmares, please just try to make all that come out as a scream. and no skin (or no curly head) beside you will tell you it was just a nightmare.
If you’re “deepening” our intimacy by hanging white clothes in between our distance, then I’m a pantomime actress. Is this what you want?
If an effort of smashing you down would make you want to run away from it, you’re never free. If you don’t see a shelter made of flesh and blood and mentality of you lover, you were born to despise yourself and you’re running away from it . . .though in vain_ you can’t see.

you pick unordinary, make ordinary out of it and let it turn into unordinary itself again. and it worships you as a result of going through that circle. it’s just like that very first way _ . . .it’s just like that airless pressure of your mothers uterus tightening over your plumpy head.

I am what makes you want to be happy.
I am the reason why you want to neglect.
I am the mother of your unborn children.
I am your intimacy.
I am your shelter.
I am unordinary never having to worship you.

See me. . .