The Importance of Being Patient

Getting engaged at a young age in our generation is never a good idea. It might seem like a romantic idea at the time, but we young adults of the twenty-first century are too involved with our ambitions and our romantic notions of finding ourselves to truly desire binding ourselves to someone at such young ages. There are, of course exceptions to that rule, like everything, but, needless to say, I was reckless and failed to hinder this advice: I got engaged a week before my twentieth birthday. In two weeks, it shall have been the anniversary of that day, and I can't say it was a day of good decisions. I was too young - I had too many plans for myself and too many things on my bucket list to complete that a fiance or, God forbid, a husband would have gotten in the way of. I still am too young. Three months later, a month after ending the relationship (it had been an awful, rocky, turbulent engagement that I never expected, yet should have seen coming), I wrote this as a tribute to the end of what must have been the most exhausting time of my life.

A Pyre for "Us"
It's three months yesterday since I gave you
my incensed adieu - I crossed the street, walked away from your pleas,
the same street where some hag clipped your arm and tumbled you into the concrete
 - does that say something? Infer something, a difference between us?
There is a bitter irony in my heart that laughs in the nooks and cockles of my soul.
It has not escaped my well-trained attentions, those which you so willfully dismissed
as follies, as excessive.

Three months, and Ms. Jones sings "turn me on," the tune of my heart.
She wails in the cafe, and it's true.
I'm in need for male company, aching for something you tried to give,
but, for lack of something more sizable, more sumptuous and tempting,
you could not.

Romantic notions came, but your attending to tragedy
(you were always searching for Juliet or Cleopatra, when you could never
be satisfied with my Olivia, my Katarina) kept you, hindered us.
I need a man with wry smile, dirty intention, and in need of laughter, instead of a torrent.
I want passion, fury; I wish to be desired - seduction that I cannot stave off.
Where is he that can make me mad with thought of him in the dead
of slumber-less nights?
I cannot see him.
"Where are you, Petruchio?"