Another poem as Valentines Day approaches:

I wish I’d never read Bridgerton.

Eight siblings, neatly ordered by name, forever bound by blood.

The Bridgertons fell in love, and I fell in love with the love.

A society lady got swept off her feet and I turned page

after page

after page

because I too wish to be carried away.

How does it feel to ride a wave of emotion so strong

you’d rather die than fight it?

To be so enamored you’d risk life and liberty

to bear his children, his name?

To read his words, etched in ink and sent across oceans

and know, in your heart of hearts,

he wouldn’t trade you for anyone else?

My brown skin and locs aren’t what the text describes

but I can’t help putting myself on the page.

What does it feel like to be the prize?

Not an afterthought, but the one sought after?

This is just a story meant to keep saps like me buying books

and merch

and Netflix subscriptions.

But I still ache for romance sweet enough to be a best seller.