This year was so overwhelming in so many ways. For the entirety of this year I’ve been running away from love. Love that was as perfect as it was toxic, love that was naive and tasted rather sweet, love that doesn’t feel like love after a heartbreak, family love, self love. Anything that has even the smallest hint of affection alerted all my senses that it was time to go. I’d pack my nerves and my insecurities and retreated into myself. I spent the year scared and afraid. Do you know how it feels to mourn love from a person who told you from the very beginning that you would be easy to forget? Not because he didn’t care, but because his heart no longer functioned the way it should. But alas, I fell in love again. I don’t know if it was the sweetness of the air, the touch of his words on the red of my cheeks, or the realization that love can come back in its purest form. Here we are… a year later and finally ready to say that I’m ready. Not necessarily going on a hunt for love, just gonna be willing to put it out there.
His tongue tastes
Like late nights
Under a fort,telling
My fear of being forgotten feels so selfish, feels so foreign. I mean, does it really make sense for someone to love making love to their pillows more than the man from across the street that would love her for free?
Does it make sense to want the love and appreciation from people who wouldn’t blink an eye in her direction even if she were engulfed in emotionally temperamental fires?
How could she want commitment from others when she couldn’t keep promises to herself?
How can she explain her bouts of darkness? Where nothing made her smile. Not her food, not the cafe con Leche, not the bed she made love to.
She just wants to be seen, felt, heard, but she has some presence to give first.
I want to love in a way that transcends
5 a.m. guilt. Whirs past rambunctious nights,
and doesn’t lean on broken hearts for
resurrection from dead hopes. That
chooses to keep open the lines
between what was and what might be.
I want to love savagely and devoid of damage-
Recognizing the inability of our tied fates to
Function without them suffocating one another
To pieces; succumbing to gory sores of
Lovers incapable of stitching us up.
Cold you love me the way thirst yearns water? A
Fresh touch to the senses that do not need
To leave a sigh, a sound, a touch, a look, a scent
To prove its real.
Could you love me, knowing I’m a masochist
For the type of love you give?
Puff, puff, pass
this dirty air
and producing a bottleneck;
leaving most people in the bottom.
It looks like
swaying softly mid air.
Wanting to be put out
but fervently burning
in the wind refusing
to shrivel up.
It looks like
Greets me every
doesn’t stick around
to let the feeling simmer.
Your love feels like
a hot summer day-
every single minute
of it, but I’m afraid
that if I stay
in it for too long
it may burn me.
I re-read our conversations;
all that love you spoke of
left me talking to myself.