I want to tell you what I think of love, now.
Even if no other person were to read this, when I’m 40 I will read this and remember myself,
when I’m 65 I’ll remember myself, and I sort of doubt -but, hope (do i, really???) -that i’ll live
to 83 or 90 and remember myself.
Today I am as much myself as anyone could be. I was dumped for the first time
by someone that I fell in love with. I feel gravity pulling me,
tides changing all across the Earth’s strange shores,
consciousness ranging far from bore.
I have truly always valued the concept of romantic love before any other kind of love.
I know it’s not true that one love is ‘better.’
But the idea of romance, and the beauty of it,
it was an obsession, fantasy, reality
in my eyes. I know it is childish to remember those idealistic faiths about what love is, I was young(er).
Love is ugly. Love requires self-sacrifice. Love requires a lover to feel pain -pain so sharp
that a weak heart would stop.
I am myself. I almost don’t believe that there could be anyone who could truly make myself
as happy as myself. The beauty of life is naive and fresh to me, when I am myself.
I could believe in anything.
Or, I believe that anything could be whatever. That’s not so bad-
it’s not un-real if I hope for it in my head.
But, as for lovers,
stay away from me please. You’ve never done me any good deeds.
Instead, friends and strangers who I meet,
let’s not become lovers, but just a dream.
That’d be my only satisfaction, it seems.
For all the love I’ve given, and unsure attempts at wisdom,
I’ve learned sacrifice is only a lie for late-bloomers such as I.
I still can’t quite believe it,
but I’m only twenty-one and my heart is prickly with stitches,
my mind wishin’ and unwishin’
love, go fuck yourself
only i believe in your integrity and health
i’ll be the lonely one, learned with stealth
hey, what day is it-
buy me a drink?
oh wait, they did and this poem is cringing from the indignity of truth
but here it is, another year’s brain-cook, soul-crook, burst into tears w. jst one look