You looked me in the eyes as you told me you love me.
Love, what means love?
As you touched my hand, full of proud.
I could have been happy about that,
happy about being loved, happy to make you feel proud.
But I wasn’t.
Love, what means love?
You told me you love me, but you didn’t.
You loved the idea, of me being yours.
You loved your own imagination of me,
a presentable acquisition, walking the way of life next to you.
You loved my body, my beautiful shell.
Love, is that love?
If that is love, why do I feel alone?
Why do I feel so alone?
There is a hunger within myself, within my stomach,
a hunger for being discovered deeply,
for being filled with the light of love in every dark corner of my body.
A hunger for being more than the beautiful shell,
for being a delicate, vulnerable soul,
which gets touched slowly, deeply, carefully.
With so much tenderness, that I can’t help myself but to open up,
to open up and show my true self, being loved for my true self,
so my body can merge with my soul,
and my wholeness can merge with the one who released me from just being
the beautiful shell.
