Story One.

Love has been corrupted
in the limelight of modern age;
subtleness became overrated,
while scandolous women snag the best catch.

I am a subtle woman,
but a passionate one first.
A man,
a worldly man with wordly needs
and mischief in his eyes,
is to whom I am attentive.
Love means more now,
passion is more evident,
and my virtue is in more danger than ever.

I can’t seem to mind.
Caring for another person more than you care for yourself,
striving to please them,
secure them to your side,
is just a sideeffect of this feeling.

My past is riddled with holes,
where the fabric has worn thin and creatures,
malignant and indifferent,
have crashed their way through.
I am an open snare,
holding on to the only thing that can tear me apart.

So, it’s not a poem, but it’s a story. Maybe I’ll just write stories from now on ((:


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