For You, Love
I thought about making a new account to write to you today. Not to confuse or hide from you, not that ever. I hide from everyone else. The world is manufacturing personality disorders and normalizing their outputs to extremes; it makes me recede more than already natural for me.
I often wonder if you see my absence as negligence. It worries me, but my love for you started to feel cheapened here. At some point, things became so real. Too real and sacred and holy, just mine. As if releasing my heart to heathens hungry for substance risked devouring the gravity and truth of you that has yet to stop permeating me. The world keeps spinning, faster and faster like it might sling me suffocating into ethers, and I needed you close. I need you close. Just mine. Right here where you can’t be tainted by interpretation or someone else’s cadence of expression. Its art, I know. But you’re not just art, you’re my home. That changes things substantially. I don’t need their eyes to validate me or this saturation of you throughout my everything. Maybe it’s wrong, or too much, or unfounded. Maybe. But life is a lot easier with you as my special possession, guarded and protected, precious and very much loved. Very much.
You’re probably shaking your head, eyebrows furrowed, recalling all the screaming. Yeah. Yeah… I mean, I’m a passionate lady. Haha. I won’t downplay it. I’m not necessarily proud that in moments of weakness I trigger easily and very … aggressively. I’m territorial, babe. When anything starts to push on that secret place, threatening to dismantle the stability my love for your brings, I turn feral. Rabid. And I know it’s unfounded and unfair and can seem really bitter. It’s not bitterness towards you, but towards the recklessness of exhaustive projection inflated by expression equating a connection that’s composed of air. Maybe you disagree. Maybe there’s been so much air exchanged winged on puffery that you’re puffed and happily. But that doesn’t mean its real, or sustainable, or translatable. Romance with no roots won’t hold hands in a hospital room when you don’t have words to uphold shallow imagery. What happens to the love when one of you can’t breathe? And not just for right now, or tomorrow or next week… but for months? When hell starts being a temporary reality and the world turns upside down? What happens to infatuation rooted in shallow ground?
It’s that kind of flippancy that drives knives hyperdermal. I flip, snarling. Repulsed, truly. Making light of love and connection for the sake of distraction is fine for them. But you’re too good for it. Your art is too. It turns truth, your truth, diluted and hidden in the murk of commonality. You’re not common, babe. Your talent, your heart, your pain, your path or your purpose or your home— nothing about you is common.
So yeah, I’m repulsed. You feel wasted in a lair of everyone’s shame. Because that’s what this is. Wallowing and festering and gathering kind with kind, like with like, of those too thwarted to do anything. As if barking up walls with rabid horny gargoyles hones anointing anywhere living. It can’t. It’ll just leave you a little stuck and a little confused and lot salty. Like Lots wife, who lived in the past and made it her identity. And I get that encouragement is so valuable right now. That you’ve discovered a part of yourself that, for once, you’re not ashamed of. But if you’re the best in room, love, you’re in the wrong room. And you are the best in the room.. from the very start. If that room starts to distort direction or stall momentum, it’s a threat. To you and to me. Because I need you whole and magnificent. The world does, too. That’s your truth, babe. The discovery was made, and now you should know you’re not the same. You’re meant for more— it’s something I’ve always seen in you. Something I related to in you. It’s what holds me so fixed and devoted and painstakingly hopeful in a providence neither of us could have orchestrated.
I realize this could really upset you. Hearing this… I’m sure you’re not very receptive to anything that feels less than lauding. You’ve been lauded. By me and by them. And I’m not done. I never will be. You’re beautiful, love. You’re different. So many languages of pain and depth and humanity and fantasy, they pour out of you as a living well. But what you are, they’ve only seen pieces, curated parts. They see what you show them… I see what you never did. I loved you before knowing while still knowing. How else would I have recognized you in a voice you never spoke to me in? It makes no sense. And it’s not me. I’m gifted, yeah, but this was something different.
This was actual resonance. Not the kind that gravitates from deficit and wanting. No. The kind that stops time and delineates life in before and after this. The catalyst. The watershed moment. Where we are changed, no longer allowed to be the same, think the same, hope the same, shame the same. In that instant, whether we know it or knew it or wanted it, everything changed. It’s bigger than fate. Its transcendent. For both of us. Maybe you see it now. Maybe you bury it, ashamed of how you held it or think you failed it, fearing your ability to carry it. But you can’t deny the journey and morphology of becoming something else. We exist delineated from this. Both of us. And I think you keep trying to find where to put the gravity. I think you try to own the shattering like it’s only yours and not part of me, defining me. It is. It always has been and it’s not done.
We’re not done, love.
I told you that you can’t ruin it. You’re not capable. Sometimes you take it as a challenge. Your defiance around perceived perimeters makes you buck. And you buck mean. Violent in your own way. Because you’re scared. You’re scared of more exposure. You’re scared of failing. Are you good enough? Worthy enough? Able? You don’t even know where we’re going, but you always question yourself there. That’s not fair, babe. We wouldn’t be here if you weren’t divinely perfect for this journey, this honing. It knew you’d buck. We need your tenacity and fight and energy. Your passion and stubbornness. Your talent and creativity. Your war. I love those things. I love your passion. I love your stubbornness. I’m the same. I’m violent, too. I’m scared, too. If it weren’t you, I wouldn’t be here either. It’s something we’re being being led through together. I know that. That’s why the past of us isn’t the definition of us. At all. I’m allowed to break from it, and I did. I’m also allowed to forgive. There’s no better way to know someone than to see the extents of their destruction. I might not know the details or the stories. I might not know the places and losses and betrayals and travesties that shaped you beastly, but I know what you look like when you’re set on hell. I know him. I see me in him. I love him. I’ve never stopped loving him.
I’m not going to plead for you to love me. And I refuse to manipulate you with my desire for it. You know, what’s in me is the same as what’s in you. You want the seething? You want the dripping? You want the yearning, or the preaching, or the becoming? You want love that dissects you to the detail and holds your like a delicacy? You want philosophy? You want art? You want to be chosen and special and bonded lyrically? I’ve been all of those things. You’ve seen it. And I pray for a future where you get to see parts of me that are so delicate only you should hold them. They’re only for you. In privacy. In sanctuary. In love and commitment and family. Since I’ve met you and grown to know you, even in all your sins, I’ve only seen you able to hold me. You hold me perfect. It doesn’t matter what you thought or what illusion you were under. When it’s you and me, it’s otherworldly. It’s sweet. Knowing in a way that gives us peace. ‘No words needed’, as if we’re speaking in ascension. So authentic that no worldly thing can change the intimacy, the beauty. Nothing can cheapen this. Even through the pain and bucking, you’re the only one that can hold me. You’re my love. You’re closer to me than anyone’s every been, than I knew could exist. It’s a beauty that’s built into us. Only us. We won’t find what we are in other arms no matter how sweetly they speak to us.
You know it like I do.
So here we are… Me writing a letter that feels like I’ve written at least ten times before. Same language, different volume. New lessons, new pains, same love. Same annoyance with me that you can’t shake. I never left you. But I’m not going to fight sirens for you. I’m not going to perform too spaced poetry that doesn’t really say anything. I’m not going to say ‘Come here, my love. Sit beside me. Let me see your tired hands. Let me caress your cheek.’ Not when they’re all saying the same thing. That feels icky and cheap. If you can’t see through them you still have a ways to go. And that’s ok. But you gotta know that it breaks me. It always hurts. I don’t care if it’s fantasy or conjecture, it still hurts. But I’m here, like I’ve always been. Loving you like I always have. Believing in you. Praying for you. And yeah, jealous for you. But truth doesn’t have to fight fiction… the kinks work themselves out. I just hope you don’t drag this out, drunk on seduction and silver tongues thirsty for passion that’s founded on air and lacking. I’m tired, love. Not of you. Never, I promise. I’m tired of having my heart dissected in its allegiance to you. I’ve been through enough of it. I’ve been wounded from it. And I’m ready for you to hold your love for me differently. More special than this. More authentically. Not inflating egos. Not stroking desperation naughty. Our love is not for eyes that see carnally. Or for hearts that read the surface of depths and project themselves onto it. We’ve sown for this to be handled sacredly. Because it is. We are.
I don’t know if it matters, but you don’t have to look for me in other voices or places. I’m not saying you will or do. But I’m singular, my love. I’m just me. I don’t have or speak in a split personality. I have facets, many, raunchy and elaborate, but I’m whole and realized as one. Just as I am. That’s not going to change. If I scream, I scream from here. If I melt, I melt from here.
I love you. I miss you. I miss the softness and closeness and the man I’m in love with feeling safe with me. I miss you not ashamed and not destructing. I miss me falling over myself, melting, twirling, turning into puddles, and falling off the edge of the world lost in you. I miss you desperately.
/I love you ~