I’ve heard a man

I’ve heard a man.

“He says, where your soul lives is unreal–

because it has been penetrated by another man’s logic, licked by another man’s stupidity, ruined by another man’s disgrace.”

Now dirty before his eyes.

furious as he is—

“He says, look at Cassandra! Elegant; so classy.

or Amanda, confident, driven and wild.

And Diana? Definitely far from you!”

They’re not easy to be unloved–


Exactly, the type who rekindles a strange rage of disgust–!”


If I have been a patient before your eyes perhaps,

I’m terminally ill.

My soul is somewhere else it can’t be an entity of your anguish—

with the words your mouth has belched, I know, you love no one in this humanity

a woman like me spares some distance away from

everything that sinks, by that, I mean you.


We just don’t Rhyme.

Tell me,

How many of Cassandra?

How much of Amanda?

How far of Diana, are you color blind to?

Tell me–

If I am ever easy to be priced and labelled like your three little women, too?

But If anything,

unfuckwithable, that’s me.

This woman

Has never thought of defining ‘romantic’ but she is.

Romantic being dark and tormented. The furror of pain and affliction.

She’s never the clingy all wrap partner because she knows how it feels like to be free. She’s rebellious by heart but only when caged and discouraged.

If she could, she would love to go to Prague. Lay on the flowers, walk barefoot on its smooth pavements and enjoy a fancy sit on its benches staring at the wind and what it’s touching which are people and things because she is romantic.

Romantic to always appreciate the darkness behind a beautiful piece. Concerned more of how and why it became such a lingering beauty by feeling its texture.

She can get sentimental at times because she likes it how tears rip and slit her face melting the mask that blankets her being so you can enjoy the forest that grows within her and not just the trees that divide her.

Her character is rooted in the smallest of things finding joy in them til grandiosity reveals itself. She doesn’t dismiss the finer things in life rather appreciate them as much.

This woman understands that a man is an equal. Thus, he should stand beside her, fight next to her and be happy together with her not a man who holds a handkerchief, put it on her mouth and suffocate her with its odorless poison. Not a man who sucks in all her light, dries all her honey not leaving moist; exhaust her so he can shine the brightest then leave her sundry like dried fish. 

This is because she is romantic. She doesn’t ask for respect or cry for help. Not anymore. Not because of pride or greed but because she loves herself so much that when a real man sees that in her, he knows exactly how to treat her the same way he loves himself without her telling him what to do. She has gotten over begging for love. As romantic as she is she has found happiness in being single; that looking at the constellation of stars at 2am on a rooftop alone is such a joy not a misery for in those constellations, she owns one star that shines only for her. 

She is romantic because she is very busy. Busy preparing herself to be a figure worthy of her children’s time and trust. She keeps building blocks for their future in secret because she knows the thrill of revealing them like a memory box filled with the things they need and dream. For those who undermine her strength know just how to judge her because being romantic means being feminine at times like you are your own child. 

She loves so fully that it overflows her reservoir. Sometimes, she comes out a monsoon that to love her is to drown in the flood of love and its realities.

Yes, she’s so romantic that when she’s hurt; she’s really hurt. That when she’s broken no glue can ever fix her rather; she makes the shards move to fix themselves forming a new one. 


Being romantic means being in charge of her life. Being romantic is to be in control of herself. 

Yes. That’s her. A very romantic woman.