What is this I feeling?
A dove, of origins unknown,
Suddenly banging violently
Within my rib cage,
Demanding its right to liberty?

Do I dare hope?

Is this the same dove
Which pummeled point-blank into my heart before?
The same winged beast I cherished and nurtured,
Who in return pecked holes with its murderous beak
Until my heart was a bleeding stump?

The same feeling
Of unhealthy obsession,
Of the water running out
Before the glass is full?
Leaving my throat pleading
For the soothing trickle of the precious liquid,
To satisfy my ever-parched thirst?

Oh, how I am torn
Between joy, frustration and apprehension.
I long to quit this three-pronged Tug Of War,
Where the object is not
To pull me over to one side,
But to wrench my arm out of its socket,
And see how loud my contact with the mud can possibly be.

But if I am tortured so,
Why does my chest suddenly rise
At the reason of my tortured existence?
Why does it fill with the ethereal happiness of hope?
A feeling so long trampled on
And stowed away as dust
In a corner of my beating heart.
So alien, it has morphed to pixie dust,
The stuff of fantasy.

Do I dare hope for its resurrection?


When my fingers brushed his,
A juicy Sahara
Shivered up my spine,
The memory of that fleeting warmth forever locked
In my scarred fingertips.

Those blue-tinted eyes,
Nay, weapons they must be,
For I used to think I was strong,
Until the eyes of a mere human
Thrust a lance through my armor,
Skewering my heart
With passion-heated metal.

Such a bittersweet longing,
A pain yet a solace,
Is it what I think it is?

Do I even dare to think it out loud?

Or is my foolish young brain once again clouding
With hopeless longings of a hormone-driven teenager?