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  • Writer's pictureVeronica Taylor

Curiosity

Curiosity.

He said he was curious

about me.

And naively,

I mistook his desire to know,

as desire for affection.

Desire.

I learned that

a strong feeling of wanting

can quickly become

impassioned hatred.


Hopeless.

As I prayed to be filled,

begged to be held and,

chased to be someone's

someone,

his desires bowed to my anxiety.

What's left to figure out about

someone so plain?

Someone so frantic for feeling

it's grotesque?


We marveled at what

what we put inside

ourselves.

I wanted to pour more into him and

whatever was left,

he could’ve poured into me.

He asked about my faded scars

and why I'm afraid of the dark.

I unclothed myself

to be inspected.


However,

looking through my pieces,

he found an ugliness so pitiful,

He decided

I didn't deserve his desire.

And soon,

I didn't deserve his curiosity either.

And just like that,

there I stood naked

And empty.


Love.

His attraction distracted me from

His enduring cloak of mystery.


I'd search for his mind in his hands.

Hands I held so dearly,

never wanting the bits that

felt like love

to slip through the cracks

between our fingers.


Apathy.

He says, he doesn't care

about me.

He is relieved when I fade.

And there is nothing he can

Offer to comfort the hurt.


Abandoned.

I learned not to share with

Someone who's only

Curious.



Edited by: Ava Emilione

Cover Photo: Veronica Taylor



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