the heart laid bare

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advice to the imaginary man of my hypothetical dreams
the tenth month
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THREE WEEKS
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untitled 5
Arrows
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The Talk Of Love
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advice to the imaginary man of my hypothetical dreams

Speak your mind.
I would hear the thoughts that careen recklessly through your head and interrupt your day;
The thoughts that pause you with your task half-done,
Lingering despite your best intentions.
Allow me to gather you up and pull you close,
And bury your face in my neck
While the injuries and injustices of your past
Spill unsummoned from your lips to lie at your feet.
 
Let yourself cry;
In front of me, with me and alone.
Unshed tears are poison to a soul.
Immerse yourself in your joy,
Your melancholy,
Your introspection, nostalgia, fear, excitement;
Your romantic tenderness and passionate desire.
There is no room between you and I
For manly stoicism.
 
Ask for what you need.
I am no mind reader,
And your needs are as valid as mine.
I will never begrudge you your solitude
Or the comfort of my arms.
My respect for you will be as boundless as my love,
For the two go hand-in-hand.
 
Don’t be afraid to love the things you love.
Geek out. Fly your freak flag high.
Talk about videogames, books, movies to your heart’s content.
Please don’t curb your enthusiasm,
Or apologise endlessly for the thing that brings you such happiness.
Even should I not share your interest,
Still I would listen with indulgent eyes.
 
Above all,
Do not go down on one knee to propose.
I am no goddess to whom you must grovel;
No emperor demanding your supplication.
You do not come to beg my favour or protection.
Approach me on your feet; take my hands.
Look me in the eye as you ask me to enter into a partnership of equals.
Stand your ground.
The man I would love would bow to no one.

© mjc 27 december 2019

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Biography

Daughter, sister, aunt, godmother, friend; self-confessed hermit, confirmed cat person, sporadic baker, irreformable yarncrafter, voracious reader; occasional wit, voluble shower vocalist, frequent sacrifice on the altar of brain-to-mouth filter fails, unrepentant purveyor of puns and dad jokes, writer and poet.

I have always lived by the theory that no matter what you do for a living - if you are compelled to write, if you wake up in the night to scrawl the contents of your dreams on a notebook beside the bed, if no event in your life seems complete without you recording it, if you are drawn to comment upon the world - then you are a writer.

These are my words.