She denied love;
she believed in the power
of independence.
The power of freedom.
She was the hero
in her own life.
She honestly didn’t need anyone.
Of course,
she was capable of compassion,
and was open to comfort,
but she never felt like
she ever had a required desire
for someone else.
Her friends would talk of
considering dating someone
only after three days of
speaking with them,
and not even in person
mind you,
and she would just
tell them to think about
what they’re doing.
They would hardly listen,
too caught up in their lust.
She would only giggle,
and return to her own
quiet home,
and cook.
Oh, how she loved cooking.
She would sit
in the window seat
right by her kitchen,
and read through the
innumerable recipes,
thumbing through
and finding the next one.
Cooking saved her,
from the complications
of an adolescent teenage mind,
and she liked it
just like that.
She wanted books
to be her desire,
the smells of homemade
meals to dictate her emotions,
she didn’t want someone
as unreliable
as a boy.
She needed someone that would
be universal,
someone that could be
there for her
and the ones that followed.
She needed someone
to depend on.
So until then,
she would have to be her own heroine.
Saving herself,
a little more
every day.
