I Must Write
Writing is hard.
This is a piece not about writing but about what one does when they are the monster they will teach their daughters to kill.
I’ll shoot straight.
I now know my problem in relationships. But it’s not feeling like the relief I hoped for.
The women that I feel comfortable with are not the women that I desire to love.
I have been opening my heart to women that need me because I have been addicted to isolation.
The women that break glass in a burning building only to find me whimpering like a puppy in the corner; these women are the only ones that have made me feel safe.
She will text me in the morning
Text me goodnight
Cook me food
Wash my plates too
She will feed on the scraps of affection that I offer
She is at home with broken crayons.
I don’t get it
Why would a grown woman extend unbroken affection, consistent extension of her treasure; to a man wounded like a Samaritan, and ungrateful like Job’s neighbor.
Where I like to lay is not where I call home.
Today is not a vulnerable piece because I am too hungry to give myself off as a piece of meat for you to apply butter and cloves on.
I will say, truth is an orphan’s bastard. It is an unwanted visitor barging through the door. Its only mission is to be seen.
Do you see me ?
Do you accept the dagger that I will pierce you with ?
Truth knocks with reckless abandon… I am no longer reinforcing my windows to keep her out. Truth, she got a mean reputation but her ire is not gonna be for me anymore; on this issue of love, I be your female dog!
I came to define the problem clearly day; then loneliness arrived via dispatch.
In my own world, I am isolated and creating magic. Now I know, the plague came and chose symbiosis. It will rob me of love in exchange for love’s scars.
Isolation has been the mothership I keep returning to. I’m her leech and she is my dog skin. I won’t itch so she lets me live. Hidden in the hair, tucked away to be found only by persistent touch by hand running through the lanes and layers of skin.
I am testing with love.
I want to behave like I wanna believe
I wanna believe that I desire healthy, whole women
I wanna believe that I can be secure without knowing what a woman that loves needs me for.
I wanna believe that I want to heal and open my arms to the shade of a Samaritan’s touch.
There is a deep sucking milking ferocious lie that I am only pain, unworthy of cost, unworthy of love; and I’m gonna take the journey to know the author of this faith; and to put a dagger in her bossom.
She is fiction yet I ride her daily like a falsetto climbing sorrow. She’s been my eyes in this hallucination and now I know my pill. Who gonna make me swallow it ?