I’m not the kind of woman to get lost in a man’s eyes only to find my home in his love. I have misunderstood a man’s arms for a home. I have misunderstood many things; love, invisible affection, affirmation I created by hand.
I’m not the kind of woman who falls in, immersing myself in such affection. I have learned I have discovered how to be better. I have been told that a true love makes a woman blossom, as if God himself awakens love to her.
I have known no such love from a man yet. I am told to breathe, I am told that such things take time, I am told that I am worth such affections.
I am not the kind of woman to beg, I am becoming the kind of woman who prays with palms open. I have learned to not pray with palms closed. Not anymore, you see if you truly want someone, or something it takes time to learn you must be willing to give something back to the God who gave it to you to begin with.
I am not the kind of woman to verbalize the fact that I can be broken, because the truth is brokenness and breath sometimes go hand in hand.
Sometimes I get so caught up in daydreams that I struggle to see what’s in front of me. Sometimes I get so caught up in my own fears that it’s as if I’ve constructed my own man made tsunami. Sometimes I wonder if I’m even worth loving at all.
I am the kind of woman who doesn’t always understand, the kind who craves depth over merely holding hands. I am the kind of woman who is growing into herself despite all the times I have held onto things that were not and are not of myself.
I am mystery in newspaper and duct tape not always the “pretty kind” of woman sometimes the debris make me wonder if I was ever pretty to begin with.
I am the kind of woman who doesn’t always have it all together, who can’t always articulate perfectly for I am not perfect. Of all these things I know and of all these things I don’t. I know I am his and he is mine and even though he has not awakened love yet, maybe if I pray with palms open I will be the kind of woman to find such a thing as love.