A slam poem in the middle of the year

Question time: how do I feel about Holly Golithly in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”? How does she do it? Can I escape from my fears like Ms. Golithly? Can I be the next Ms. Golithly?

Little black dresses are a Ms. Golithly’s thing

A hooker of feelings

A bitch but not a bitch: I’d like to be a happy, glee, gay hoe.
I can’t be sexual, but I want to give people that inner pleasure, the one who stimulates the mind. I wanna fuck people’s mind: by that I mean make a quick, sensible, unforgettable impression through my spirit and thoughts, like a delightful one-night-stand with the most professional hooker.

Love doesn’t exist and I can’t afford it. It is a time this one when I can’t seem to have a person who fully embraces myself, who’s got the guts to call me “girlfriend”. And honestly, would I be a good girlfriend? Hell yeah, I would, but in the long run I don’t know. I think I would miss some shit in my life, some experiences. And everybody demands experience, from jobs to love.

So far I’ve met all nice people. They all respected me and listened to me. Just two assholes: my first and second kiss. The first one was a forced act and he didn’t remember my name at all the next day. He also did stink, to be honest. The second boy I’ve kissed was just a stranger met at a club, a man in the army. After a whole year, I came back home again and my mind was already made up: I will never find love.

I was wrong: I found it and lost it at the same time, the same year. After that marvelous, romantic, chivalry, and exquisite experience I came back to reality and focused solely on myself, telling myself that love was about to come someday.
Another guy came across in my path, and I saw already that he was so not gonna be my definite lover, but my second well-done kiss and first romantic story, a story that you would share at a nights girls out in front of a bunch of macaroons and hot chocolate. My story would have been him, but with a good ending like “we’re still friends”.

Well, what happens is that I kinda am into this boy. Like, a lot. I didn’t plan on this, I thought he was just a temporary crush, but he actually changed me. The previous one too, sure, but this one changed me.

Let me be clear, I didn’t change for him, I changed because of his presence, along with my friends’. It was never a lovey-dovey thing, though.
The thing is that he doesn’t love me. I don’t either, don’t get me wrong. But I am highly sure, super-duper sure, that if I consume some sort of sexual experience with him I will be somehow attached, and I will want to be his girlfriend. Yes, I’m a virgin, a not-ashamed one.

I don’t like labels that much, but sometimes they keep things in order: so by saying “girlfriend” I mean that type of young woman who supports her young man, pushes him to go out of his comfort zone, get his shit done, be inspired by him and enjoy moments with him. I want to be enough, to be the one who someone would like to see, talk and get affection along with his friends.

But he doesn’t love me. He likes me, cares for me, but love? I lowkey would like to hear someone who says “I love you”, but I will never hear that. I know that. At least for now. I believe I would deserve this kind of love, but I can’t somehow and that’s the universe interacting with me.

My smile reflects love, in joy, pain, hope, and illusion. My smile is my sensual weapon.

So if I can’t be loved, but I’m just liked, what can I do to survive and cope this failure that I constantly carry in my life? As Audrey Hepburn says “I was born with an enormous need for affection, and a terrible need to give it” that goes for me as well, I must give that kind of love to someone. I can’t do that through sex, because nobody allows me to do that. I can’t fuck, I need to make love, sorry. I’m not good at it. If I can’t make love with my body I can make love with my mind, my knowledge, my creativity, my story. I can go on a date and express my kindness faith a meaningful conversation in front of a cup of coffee. Or by going to a museum and make that person discover new things about a Renoir painting. Or at a concert, giving constructive opinions about the band or the singer. Or at the theatre, where my claps give a brief review of what I saw and can inspire me too for my writing.

I’m not boring, even when I tell that I am, I’m not, I don’t believe so. It’s just that sometimes I don’t have the good amount of resources to do all the cool stuff I could do to express my whole self – and I don’t mean money. I mean, also that, but I was thinking of something like Lola Darling place in Brooklyn, where my own bed is a place of rest, self-love, and dreams, the kitchen is a place of restoration and the living room a crib full of papers, canvas, pictures, books, and old pieces of vinyl from the Seventies.

So yeah, I wanna be a hooker of feelings, where my $50 for the powder room is exchanged with laughs, smiles and beautiful talks. We can dance and touch, but not that much.

I’m not loved, only lovely. And that’s okay to be such creature. Because guess what? At the end of the day, you can still be the one who loves yourself. So, at the end of everything, you are not that alone. And people around you will give you different kinds of love – friendships, respect, familiar attention. Because with this attitude, you’re good, like, so good. You become an exciting mental orgasm in people’s mind, pure delight.
Wherever you are, be safe with your heart,


the curly flower

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