Do you know the meaning of fierce? I imagine your joy upon taking me home, laying me upon your bed, and calling me yours. But every joy has a price, and while my purpose  is to belong to you, you must also be mine. You must love me with my own passion as I love you, with flames flattering our nights together and sorrow souring the time we are apart. For I will love you fiercely. I will wait, will swallow my pride, will sacrifice, will love unconditionally. Fiercely. The kind of love will rip a person's ribs apart and expose his weakly quivering heart. Will you let me reach in and pump yours with my own blood and passion? How hard will you love me? Hardly by comparison? Do you know what is to fight for instead of against? From there comes true strength, true love. If you believe in what it means to be human, then yes, I will belong to you.

You could tell he loved her by the way he touched his face to her hair, eyes closed. His arm around her waist protected her from the push and pull of inertia on the barreling train, but even as he shut out inertia from his girl with his embrace, she only felt his gentleness. He was handsome, young, and had a look of someone with strong, admirable convictions. At first, I could only see her hair, which was dark like mine, long like mine, and layered unlike mine. Then I saw her nails, not long and fake, but painted and glittering. I wondered if he liked the way her nails looked. Then I saw her hands, white and delicate, extremely feminine. She never stepped out of his arms and held on to his neck, his back, his waist, as long as it was a part of him, she would hold on. His eyes closed for a long time, but I doubted he was sleeping. I imagined he was simply bathing in bliss, in love. What a lucky guy. What a lucky girl. When she turned her face to his chest, her profile showed thick mascara and a tall nose. I thought she would be Asian, especially since he looked like a half Asian. He had a sharpness characteristic of Caucasians, but they were softly smoothened, as if by an artists gentle fingers. No, as they sat down, I saw her face and she was beautiful.

I snuck glances at them as much as I could. It wasn't hard to realize that I was in love with their love. It was love at first sight. No one else shined through the crowd the way they did, but as brightly as they shined, they were blind to their own brilliance. That is bliss--amnesia-oblivion-inducing bliss.  

He has taken my art, my poetry

by breaking my heart,

leaving me bereft,

so lonely.

Truth: beauty hurts more than bitterness

like a shivering maiden in winter's dress.

Death's sapphire, those azure lips,

pale and frosted in numbness,

curve smilelessly. Stretching, they rip.

He who sees pain beneath her bloodless skin

sees beauty exposed by her satin trim.

The world is melting into pools that invade the sidewalks,

turning dull asphalt surfaces into gaping skies,

mirroring that which has not yet melted.

She touched her lower lip to the rounded ceramic rim and gently sucked in the wisps of steam rising from the hot tea. She watched the smokey strands suddenly find direction from their meandering dance to rush through her lips and into her lungs, returning to their relaxed rise as soon as she stopped inhaling. She wondered if her lungs benefited from the moisture. Then she wondered if the essence savagely boiled out of the tea leaves evaporated along with the steam.

He cleared his throat. She looked up, daring him to make demands of her.

His eyes flickered away instinctively from that look before he quickly regained his resolve and composure.

"There's something we should talk about," he started before she responded with, "So talk about it."

He looked at her and saw the same radiance that first made her irresistible to him. She wasn't the type of gorgeous that turned heads or made men think dirty thoughts. She had the type of fearless beauty that inspired you to forget your fears and take her hand for the jump. It didn't take him long to make the jump with her.

"We're not working out. In another time and place, we might have worked out, but...well, here we are."

He paused to give her a chance to speak, but her eyes and lips remained unmoving, waiting for him to say something of substance.

"You need too much from me, and I can't give you what you want. I've been incredibly busy and you haven't made life for me any easier."

I gave you everything I ever called my own.

"I know you've given me so much and bared your soul to me, but that doesn't make anything better. Maybe that makes me a coward, but I was never the type that imagined saving the damsel in distress. You need a prince and that's just not me."

When she came to know him, she wanted to save him. He was too isolated, too unexposed to love. She tried to show him what it was like to be loved unconditionally, to be worth sacrificing for, to be stronger than selfishness. She failed, but he succeeded in showing her what it was like to love and lose in utter helplessness. She learned that she had gone through life following naive dreams. For the first time, compassion lost its universality in her heart.

"You--" she started, but as soon as she started he stopped her. "No, you know it's not just me. You messed with my feelings. You kept pushing and pushing and you eventually pushed the wrong button."

It was both their faults. That they both recognized. They hurt each other. A led to B which led to C, D, E and here they are at F. It doesn't matter that once, they had touched and felt the world in each others fingerprints, that once, the golden leaves rained in the autumn sunshine just for them because they were in love, that once, music made sense and gave them a place to spend time with each other when they were apart. It doesn't matter, because he didn't let her touch him anymore, and there was no more music that didn't stab at his heart, no more leaves left in the sky to prove love was real.

They both knew where the turning point had been, and it was tragic. Fate timed the provocation perfectly. She planted the seeds of doubt in his head, and as soon as she did, she fell victim. He responded by blaming her, making her believe that it was her fault for putting herself in the way of another man's insult. He refused to acknowledge her pain. He shrugged at her when she reached for him. He even laughed at her.

She blinked. "I agree. We're not working out."

He swallowed, afraid of her power to drench his denial in acid with her words if she continued, but she didn't. She had looked up and memorized jokes so that she could cheer him up when she knew he would be stressed. She had stayed up late, writing love letters and saving snippets of inspiration for his worries. She had rubbed salve on the embarrassing chafes on his body. He had grabbed her hand and refused to let go. He had held her through entire nights. He had opened her unrealized body with his patience and tenderness. He had kissed her forehead and promised to show her the world.

Finally, she looked away. "Although," she continued, "if you don't want to end up alone and unloved, you need to learn to be less selfish."

She thinks she knows more about love than he does. She doesn't know anything. She's the one who will end up alone if she can't be content without drama.

"Goodbye." He got up to leave and then threw at her, "You stopped being important to me the first time you told me what happened that night. I'm sorry it took me so long to let you go."

The door slammed without the finality expected of moments like these.

She looked down, saw that the tea had stopped steaming, and then the world began to quiver.

We've been dying since the day we were born,

leaving a memory smear of dead babies, toddlers, adolescents, dreams.

The painting of orphaned skid marks left behind

gains streaks and strokes from swerves and stops,

increasingly incomplete.

The beloved shoes will never be worn again,

but the earth keeps the obituary.

I squeeze the cough out

like a meaningless pleasantry

how are you? good, and you?

but the pressure is still deep inside,

unrelieved.

And then I found the trick maneuver: heave

and the weight lifts.

The fake retching only expels dry delusion,

but the soaking heaviness can still ride the squeezing wave,

disappearing for a moment before settling down again

to its home where guilt is born, nursed, and harvested.

These nails bother me more.

They're too soft to pierce through this bone deep ache.

They scratch at the same surface to rawness,

never reaching the itch that needs to be dug out.

If I could just remove these useless nuisances

and not have to call this pale, tender leather mine.

Something has to break

before I start snapping off these caresses saturated with poisoned nerves

finger by finger,

limb by limb.

It's my millionth circle.

Rounded, complete, perfect.

Circle circle circles

circle circle lies.

Each point on a circle is equidistant from the center,

but mine are all imperfect,

from the first to the millionth,

so actually, I have no circles,

just shapes

pretending.

An old man sits among hip young people. The young people are absorbed, they have pictures to comment on, text messages to read, videos to watch, trends to follow. The old man doesn't even drink coffee or know what a double shot mocha latte is.

The young people don't want to appear unbusy or alone, and they have tab after tabs of websites and applications to sift through. They're hip. The old man just holds his hat. He doesn't need to look like he's waiting for someone. He has the end to wait for. He just needs the simple pleasure of being warm and alive. That's what his hat is for. He thinks about life and his only desire is for these young people to live a fulfilling life and change the world for the better.

I'm rootin' for ya, he thinks, as he looks around, holding his hat.

Most times people will comment, "your nose is bleeding,"

but this time no one takes the effort to say a word

and for a while I didn't notice.

And because nosebleeds don't seem to hurt,

letting me run like a faulty faucet

is permissible.

But for a while I didn't notice

as I bestrew each interaction with my wound.

And blood is disgusting--it smells and stains,

and smears my face until it's unkissable.

I can't wash it off, because it doesn't dry and crust.

It renews and remains fresh, crimson at its finest.

A girl told me to look at hers and demanded that I recognize her pain.

And I finally noticed

the horror right beneath my nose.

Stains and splatters

soaked to the skin through my clothes.

And it's true, it does hurt.

This time I failed to avert even with my best effort

even if I did understand.

But I didn't understand just didn't understand

that the blow of an unwanted, probing hand

hurts more than a physical, condemnable strike.

We know that an unjust power structure over the years can ravage a nation.

Who knew than an unjust power structure between two people

can turn innocent admiration

into cold calculation

and eliminate all wonder and ambivalence towards domination.

We don't like being puppets, being used,

but some don't have to accept being refused.

It's hard, and I never understood, was oblivious

until manhood ended my girlhood,

and though the bruises of evidence are gone,

I've been banished into weak womanhood.

It's hard and I'm back to not understanding.

It's my fault for having broken vessles.

It's my fault for accepting drink from someone stronger,

but I never expected the impending wrestle.

What will stop the nosebleed?

Then, how do I clean this soul that has been bloodied?

National Geographic Photo of the Day