I love to love,
I want to smoother people in layers of protective coating,
like chocolate and honey,
sticky love, that catches.
And can be shared, divine.
I hate to love.
And not in any sense that I don’t hold love,
don’t feel love,
don’t want love,
or give love.
but that this word…love,
brings into my chest all these feelings of face screwed up and awkward.
A psychosomatic response,
a sad sort of smile.
How can I feel comfortable
and ok with the sensual side of my feminine,
process pain and that being pushed down below,
told as a woman, wanting to love,
I am insane.
So I shut it up,
closed all my windows and doors,
believed him, when he told me my flaws.
But I need to be open and receptive,
comfortable to be held and told I am loved.
I’ve read bell hooks,
I’ve listened and taken in her definitions,
understanding that there is no fairy tale ideal of ‘falling’ into a love,
Don’t want to appear too cynical.
But I am cynical.
Too often fucked, and fucked over.
We are all scared to feel.
And so boarded closed is my heart.
But until this love of self,
understanding of deserving, warms my soul,
Day dreams will be my loves reality,
my sisters and brother will provide me with care,
mummas hugs warm me with affection,
vulnerable I will be with my page,
committed to me, myself, and I.
my truth, respect, honesty, will be shared, with those I care, but gently.
And when this soul warms and cynicism is delayed,
I’ll open my heart slowly,
wearing torn silk gown, edges a little frayed.
In my waiting I will read tarot and star signs
devour jitterbug perfume, one more time
day dream my way through my love affair with Pan
stain lips beetroot red,
Make a new perfumed scent, sexy, musky, brutal, bold.
Ha! I will beet a fucking root and wrap words and my thighs around a rhythm…
spit out my truths,
challenge my cynical assumptions
love myself through all my imperfections,
and that will be enough.