The Curve Imperfect

The Curve Imperfect

By Keith Kareem Williams

What she sees when she looks in the mirror and what I see when I look at her is sometimes so different that it puts us at odds, in a weird space where our love struggles to survive. She sees flaws and I see perfect imperfections. I’m in love with every sensuous curve, and she thinks that she needs to lose weight. She holds her hands to hide her stretch marks and I sometimes forget that they’re even there. She’s obsessed with creams to grease them away and I don’t even care if they’re there. I’m more concerned with her kiss and she thinks that she should have smaller lips. She hates the way her jeans fit but I love putting my hands on the curve of her hips. She always wanted to have sex in the dark until I showed her how much sexier it is to do it with the lights on. Instead of being shy, I let her know that it was good to be wild so that sexually, she could finally be free.

She believes that she’s crazy. I know this because she says it all the time but, I know that her “crazy” is exactly like mine. We’re not technically insane but it seems so because the rest of the world doesn’t understand what we know. Just because everybody else does things one way, doesn’t make them right. In this life we seek out people who understand our light because each of our candles burn differently. At times, it’s a hard task to make her understand that I see her flame, even in the stifling darkness that she lives in because of her melancholy nature. I truly believe that two very different women are confined inside the same voluptuous frame that I love to hug, squeeze and to please. I am fascinated by them both equally and both have the power to bring me to my knees. She feels cursed by the duality of her nature, but I embrace that she’s different. The meanness that lives in her is wild and unpredictable with a temper to rival mine. The loving side is softer than any I’ve ever known and always welcomes me home.

What she sees when she looks in the mirror and what I see when I look at her is totally different. She sees rough clay and I see the masterpiece perfectly made. If only for a day, she could step inside my mind to see herself through my eyes, her self-image would be changed forever. She would never apologize again, to herself or anyone else, for being who she is. Everyone wants her but none of them can have her. They’re not strong enough to love her unconditionally, or built to be patient enough to wait until she’s ready to give in. You can’t break down her walls. She has to take them down herself, one brick at a time.