I have no tears

I don’t want to care.
I don’t want my tears.
Not yours either.
I don’t want the strength of it.

For I see where it leads,
That slow bloom of anger.
Of hate misunderstood.

Your empathy comes with fists.
To go with your black heart.
Crafted by one sided views.
Like most fashions that touch us.

While I mourn that you see it so,
I mourn because I see it too.
My world is changing.
With you, shaping it.

I can do nothing.
So I shed no tear.
Not for you. Not for him.
For helplessness maybe.
Not for me.

Advertisements

Sorry, Sir (The inconsiderate gentleman).

Savour your victory, Sir. In this moment, you have certainly outwitted me. You had me at the disadvantage when you struck. Though you knew it, it did not slow your attack, nor did it diminish your victor’s ardour. Very well done,  Sir.

For you could not have conquered so feasibly were we on an equal stance. I do not prop up my intellect, do not misunderstand my confidence. I merely guide you back to the memory of our encounter. So that you might acknowledge that I was hindered, not by lack of wit, but by manners expected. Were I to throw away said hindrance, I am certain that I could defeat you.

For you do not desire a challenge, and you prefer an already weakened opponent. And I enjoy a good whipping, if not in actual deed, but in the language of proper conversation.

Indeed, in deed.

Alas, alas, it comes to this.

For you know me well.

In turn only to find,

That you knew me once.

 

Was I not before you just yesterday?

In that guise that screams your notice?

Was this shell so thin?

That this ghost now holds no sway?

 

In time, with time, I long, I sigh.

It is not permanence, my dear, so take heart.

This pale reflection was once in dreams.

Where tomorrow it will fall again.

 

Indeed, indeed.

Stand back, Sir! (The mannerless gentleman)

I find you vulgar, Sir.

And not because I am female and require a gentler approach.

You lack finesse, the finer leanings for encounters. You misunderstand subtlety. Witty little lies and innuendo elude you. Instead, you are like a bull, careless and rash, animal in your dealings. You blunder, head first, stumbling in your own path, incapable of seeing the mess you create.

It offends me, Sir, even if it does not directly revolt me. For I am used to more consideration, and your inelegance is discourteous. For you did not think to learn otherwise in order to be on surer feet.

I see you are unhappy. Maybe a little furious. Shame. For I could teach you the finer art of etiquette. I could make you cleaner and more attractive, even as a forethought.

No, alas. I like you no better than men’s unmentionables. Therefore I care not for your education.

Stand back, Sir. You stuff of dreams forgotten.