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The Curious Ones

I came across this poem some time ago and love the way it describes ‘The Curious Ones.’ I know that I tend to be one of them, and most of the friends and people I gravitate towards are, too. To the ones who want the insides:

Don’t Fall In Love With The Curious One

Don’t fall in love with a curious one.
They will want to know who you are, where you come from, what your family was like.
They will look through your photographs and read all of your poems. They will come over for dinner and speak to your mother about how their curiosity has taught them things of use to her. They will ask you to rant when you’re angry and cry when you’re hurt.
They will ask what that raised eyebrow meant. They will want to know your favorite food, your favorite color, you favorite person. They will ask why.
They will buy that camera you liked, pay attention to that band you love in case there’s a show near by, they will get you the sweater you smiled at once. They’ll learn to cook your favorite meals.
The curious people don’t settle for your shell, they want the insides.
They want what makes you heavy, what makes you uneasy, what makes you scream
for joy, and anger, and heartbreak.
Their skin will turn into pages
that you learn to pour out your entire being in.
Don’t fall in love with the curious one.
They won’t let a sigh go unexplained.
They will want to know what they did
Exactly what they did to make you love them.
Year, month, week, day.
“What time was it? What did I say? What did I do?
How did you feel?”
Don’t fall in love with a curious one because I’ve been there.
They will unbutton your shirt
and read every scar
every mark
every curve.
They will dissect your every limb, every organ, every thought, every being.

– Author unknown

{Photo via Schramcrackers}

{ 2 comments… add one }

  • Vanessa May 30, 2014, 8:27 am

    I have a poem for you that makes me think of the one above. It’s by Richard Jones and it’s called “Letter of Recommendation From My Father to My Future Wife”.

    During the war, I was in China.
    Every night we blew the world to hell.
    The sky was purple and yellow
    like his favorite shirt.

    I was in India once
    on the Ganges in a tourist boat.
    There were soldiers,
    some women with parasols.
    A dead body floated by
    going in the opposite direction.
    My son likes this story
    and requests it each year at Thanksgiving.

    When he was twelve,
    there was an accident.
    He almost went blind.
    For three weeks he lay in the hospital,
    his eyes bandaged.
    He did not like visitors,
    but if they came
    he’d silently hold their hand as they talked.

    Small attentions
    are all he requires.
    Tell him you never saw anyone
    so adept
    at parallel parking.

    Still, your life will not be easy.
    Just look in the drawer where he keeps his socks.
    Nothing matches. And what’s the turtle shell
    doing there, or the map of the moon,
    or the surgeon’s plastic model of a take-apart heart?

    You must understand —
    he doesn’t see the world clearly.
    Once he screamed, “The woods are on fire!”
    when it was only a blue cloud of insects
    lifting from the trees.

    But he’s a good boy.
    He likes to kiss
    and be kissed.
    I remember mornings
    he would wake me, stroking my whiskers
    and kissing my hand.

    He’ll tell you — and it’s true —
    he prefers the green of your eyes
    to all the green life
    of heaven and earth.

    • Jessica May 30, 2014, 6:39 pm

      Vanessa I you and I love that poem! Thank you for always sharing your thoughts with me. Always inspired by you <3

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