I don’t want to be somebody’s choice. That they skim through articles catch their eye and chance a look, my brain, a quary of unrequited love letters, scandles upon a dozen of them- each one, more humorous then the other. The ink I pour onto a page sometimes is just meant for me. That lately- everything is a war into that one category, success.
I don’t want to be somebody’s choice. I want skin on teeth and heavy breathing, I need to feel somebody’s body above mine capturing me and seeing my entirety. Eternity of hiding behind closed doors and loosing appeal once they say ‘goodbye’ or even, ‘hello’, or even ‘you look different today’.
I don’t want to be somebody’s choice, lies upon lies, deuces. Captured by passion, a life so extraordinary I have not a minute to waste on people I thought would care, but don’t. Before I seen, old companions, star crossed lovers, a tall brooding secret that parted my lips in salty bitter, stuttering-‘no’. That’s gone. It’s not with me anymore. I feel, changed. A continuum of realisation towards that one single thought. I don’t want to be somebody’s choice.
Somehow I always end up finding myself back where it all started. Somehow, I knew, I made it out alive.