A Dame The Knight made her...

You dear sir, you, who demand a piece of my heart shall not win it with such ease. You sir will woo me into the realms of a world where I am your queen and you are dysfunctional in my absence. You will prove to me that it is not glories you seek on this battlefield of life, but your willingness to give them up for me. A gallant ambitious man nay hard to find, but it is a man who will put me on a pedestal that is.

You should try and not chomp on the veal chop at the dinner table were we sit or leave the fine cutlery I pick, unappreciated. The golds, the mauves, and the lilacs have a reason they are the hue of our life. I want a royally magnificent life and I fancy a chair with thin rods for a backrest. I desire the ease of calling the blacksmith and carpenters at the snap of my fingers. I want them to saw and mould a world where we can enjoy our love in comfort. You would know I like flowers best to be potted and not dead in a vase. Nevertheless, my Good Sire you will send me a bunch of geraniums interspersed with Bougainvillea. You, my lord will have maidens await me with a hand towel to wipe my face and one to slip shoes on to my wan feet.

I will await you every night in our chambers to smother you with love and to knead your drawn muscles as the ochre light compliments the purple sheets that are entangled between our legs. However, you should presume that it is me who needs your body to plaster itself against mine as I have spent the whole day tiring myself out to make our abode a better place.

I will sit by the window my Knight, waiting for you to ride in gallantly after that long journey you have had. I would have dismissed the Servants to their Quarters, lit the house up in candles, fired up the hearth, and lay out a spread of the best meats in town.  However, I want you to think of this as more tedious than all the wars you have fought outside before returning to my arms.

I ask naught for a 100 Florins of Gold and Silver or a hundred yards of the choicest velvet, all I ask of you is to deal with the fact that I might not be a woman who powders her nose every hour or embellish my hairclip with tiny sparkly stones. But I am high maintenance of a unusual variety and thou shalt want to enjoy maintaining my whims and fancies my lord.

Slithering to let go...

She hissed from her lairs. Her Sinewy luminescent eyes had a glair that could smolder what her fiery breath could not. She moved with the sinuosity of the Rhine, engulfing the darkness that swathed her. She growled and yowled at anything that moved beyond her trapdoor.

She was wounded. The scars oozed a mixture of blood and deceit. She clanked her rusty shackles every time they slid the food in. There was no difference whether her eyes were open or shut. There was an outburst of the omnipresent warm tears of pain always.

Days rounded up into weeks and weeks into months. T

The wounds still hadn’t healed. Nevertheless, they were there. The scabs were misunderstood for poisonous encrustations. She was untouchable, unspeakable of; she was a revolting thought to all of them who stood outside her cell and heard her snarls subdue into whimpers.

At sunset, she sat by her wee window one evening, Shame faced at her stark nakedness that had cloaked her for months now. She seethed and fumed like a Strombolian. She decided that she had to chip the shackles off. One molecule after another. She did. She did so splendidly. The soft voices on the outside soon diminished into pointless whispers. The scabs fell off. The sun had set but she saw the light. She glided laconically into freedom. The snap of the bondage was terse and brusque enough to break her heart into a million shrapnel. There was one last howl that ended her labor. She was born again. She crept out like the serpent that had gotten her there in the first place. That was her last moment in her reptilian form….She was renewed again...She was healed now…

To C who turned out be an A-Hole

You left a purple bruise on me. The one only I could see in the shame faced confines of my blue tiled bathroom as the icy needles of water hit my head, spiraled down my tresses, and mingled with all other waste and into the sewers of this city.

I had stirred in me the emotions that I had locked into one corner of my bludgeoned heart before I met you on that fateful day.

I had assumed you were my long lost serendipity. I looked at the happy couples swarming the streets by the sea and thought we were one of them. Holding hands as the sun pierced through our sunglasses.

You turned out to be a con artist of the strangest variety. You proofread your act before performing at my theatre. You enunciated, dramatized, and romanticized your emotions that a hardhearted slut like me bought every bit of it.

I am ashamed of having acquainted myself with you. To have let your tongue slide into my ears and coherently lie to me. To let you kiss my cheek a 1000 times before a million betrayals. To have let you fuse your full mouth with my forehead in a liaison of deceit. Espionage it was. You are as pure as the driven snow and I still might have pangs of attraction mingling with hateful venom for you every time you text me something sassy.

I think of your grin, as lopsided as your intentions and your torso that stood two heads taller than I did on that sunny day. It rams me into beliefs like “All good looking rich men are a farce like you’’

I probably misjudged you. Did not see through my rose tinted glasses that you were looking for a torrid affair while I dreamt of fixing you eggs Benedict on a slothful Sunday.

I probably should have believed my gut instinct and known you were a callous bastard.