I don’t often write of love.
Sure, I may occasionally pen
Directed as a suggestion, more so than a profession. Yet, who am I to suggest such a thing? For I, myself know not what it means.
Sure, I’m familiar with the term, have used it broadly in exclamation of intensity, but what confusion simply using one word can often bring. I am a mother, a grand one at that. No, not a boast, I’m just that old. My love for these beings is undoubtedly the most intense I’ve experienced. Yes, I know I’d lift a car if one happened to be between me and the moment of ones life and death. This love, is without question. But upon reflection, would I find such strength, such a will within myself, to lift said burden from crushing me? History has proven to me, no. Now that’s not to say that my future reads as bleak, not admitting I find myself unworthy, it’s simply reminding myself that’s it’s only me, that will ever stop me from feeling truly worthy, of love.
I love to write of lust! The thrusts of such carnal toe curling throes, flows so easily from my pen. Again, I wonder if it’s because I feel safer with the boundary that using the word ‘lust’ over ‘love’ implies.
To be totally truthful, ‘love’ scares the absolute fuck out of me.
That single moment of undeniable vulnerability simultaneously makes me ache in yearning to taste, and hide my heart away… in aid of what, keeping it safe? Love of ones Self, is no doubt my life’s goal. Well, a challenge so far, but a goal none the less… Love of and for another, that love that has kept the hands and hearts of poets occupied for eons of time, and will continue to do so for eternity I suspect, yes, that love, terrifies me. I mean, honestly, allowing one soul to reach in, behind every mask I adorn, strip me of all pretense, cull me of any shelter, bare me of these layers that I’ve tirelessly placed in self preservation, of protection, against breaking, against being taken, as a fool, as a love sick fool…yep…terrified!
And what of the moment of realization that on paper, the realities simply do not connect all the dots, yet the way every moment of every single day is completely drenched by thoughts of how they make you feel, complete, worthy, wanted, needed. Is that enough? Is that love? Or just another lust that wears a cloak of blood pumping greed? Does love even need to make sense? Or is that the whole purpose? It never does, never will? Is that the hurdle that must be leapt? The edge of the cliff that must be found? The jump, the fall, the not knowing if you’ll crash n burn or flap n soar?
Fucked if I know! All I’m sure of is that I don’t often write of love.
For I, myself know not what it means…