An Object Of Love.

I’ve been the object of desire and the thing that looked good to a lot of people.  

I’ve been catcalled, hollered at and guys have honked their horns to get me to turn around.

I’ve been an object of comfortability, where it’s thought that because I go to church and I don’t swear that I must be a good girl and there’s no need to worry. I’ll always be a good girl. 

I’ve been the object of assumption. That I don’t want to swear and I love going to church. That I don’t want you to worry because I’m never feeling myself to the point where I think I could do much better.

I’ve been an object of regret. Where in a heated moment they wish they never met me, but a year later they wish they never left me. I don’t know if I should be annoyed or flattered. 

What about the object of Love. To be understood, treated well, listened to and protected.

What’s that like?

Real love.

Not lust or fascination.

Love.

I think I might be afraid of that actually.

 

xoxo

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