the vunlerability of intimacy

I find nothing especially exquisite in the features of my face, nor do I operate on the mind of a genius but I have acquired talent enough to fool the confused desire of puppy dog boys. Perhaps it's my survival instinct, the education of past lovers, the defence i use to numb myself from the vulnerability of intimacy. For i'm the possession of lust and the more I ponder the weight of such a belonging, I see all shattered hearts are. I'm like the season of spring, but no flowers can bloom within me. And i'll continue to breathe underground until i can let go, of him, of us, of the girl I used to be. But for now, as i lie in lonely hours I find myself torn between an independent woman on the edge of maturity and the overtly sexual facet created to lure admires. I'm presented with a choice, remain in a state of false afffection, where most broken hearts dwell, or grasp the hope of reuniting the love that is real.