If you are unmarried by age 29 (female) or age 31 (male) statistically you have just avoided your first divorce
(via just-shower-thoughts)
Marriage
Do not look at me and think,
that because I’ve loved so sparingly,
been secretive, held close to me the truth of each rendezvous’ intensity,
that such things are beyond the scope of my ability.
My wants consist of nothing more than relinquishing to you the truths not seen,
by the rest of the world,
as I stand emotionally;
raw and vulnerable,
beneath sacred altar,
torso hugged generously,
by the softness of a chic white sheath.
But if you marry me,
you must know too,
that unlike the blessings tied up in union’s day,
I am not protected,
perpetually coated in all things sugar sweet,
the clouds will come,
the rain will fall,
simplicity won’t stay.
If you marry me,
you’re attaching yourself to pains and loads unasked for,
burdens that despite a woman’s best and most conscious efforts,
she’s forever forced to dance with anyway.
If you marry me,
you’re committing to the extra pounds,
and the ones lost when in frustration and desperation,
I push nourishment away.
You’re signing up for the sounds of an annoying laugh,
and the strains of cry more sickening,
when I can’t find the blessing among sheets of darkness,
and my anger at a God I question,
wipes the smile from my face.
If you marry me,
you will see the light extended everybody,
but you will have dove headfirst into the harshness of elements so bleak,
unfair,
and ugly.
You will see the truth of grappling,
the simplicity which angers me,
as I push against the boundaries,
with a mind so sharp,
and the natures of a body,
so uncontrollably sedentary.
You will know my desire to mother,
in manners different than my own,
and eventually,
glimpse the repugnant nature of envy so involuntary,
when sat among friends,
whose bodies have bestowed such accomplishments effortlessly,
alone.
You are tying yourself to this,
to love,
to truth,
to sexuality,
but simultaneously,
to darkness both controlled and uncontrolled,
to illness,
to challenge,
to strength,
to weakness and insecurity.
The camaraderie,
and the loneliness,
attached to existing as members of our community.
Don’t think that because I’ve loved so sparingly,
with rendezvouses so few and far between,
that to do so again is beyond the scope of my ability.
I promise to be as gentle, kind, understanding, passionate and forgiving
as I have ever learned to be.
To admit when I am wrong,
and attempt never to go to sleep,
anger hot and bubbling,
as you lie next to me.
I promise to love you,
even if and when I hate me,
and I am sorry before we’ve even met,
for all the ugliness beyond my control,
the loads you’ll shoulder for me,
my inability to be the wife,
to give you our family.
My wants consist of nothing more than relinquishing to you the truths not seen,
by the rest of the world,
as I stand emotionally;
raw and vulnerable,
beneath sacred altar,
torso hugged generously,
by the softness of a chic white sheath,
but don’t think you can’t tell me if it’s too much,
that you need an out,
an opportunity to walk,
or run.
I’ve become accustomed to love not reciprocated,
singleness,
qualms,
fears,
rejection,
and you’d never be the last one.
But don’t take your vows if such things have crossed your mind even once,
don’t declare their truth before me,
if like the diamond placed upon my finger,
it only shines beneath the sun.
Do not love and commit to everything less than desirable and lovable,
if such to you is temporary,
to be built and destroyed,
more than once.
(via poeticstories)
