Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Love, moi.

This was written a year ago, but I still fight with myself: Love, or no love? Destroy myself, or fix it?

I have never known love.
I have never been held by somebody who said
“We fit together”.
There has never been another
And that is fine.
I can’t live up to someone’s standards
And I can’t give more than I can take
Of my heart to only one.
There isn’t a part of me
That I can let ache
Because I need him by me.
It means I'm not sure I can be faithful.
I can’t give up drinking, and messing myself up,
Until I am tangled and bent.
It is my art, and it is an instinct
To remain convoluted and tormented.
It’s not a burden I can lay on someone without guilt.
Everyone is shallow to some extent,
And unless he is beautiful superficially,
I won’t be able to step out holding his hand.
Walk, head held high,
Telling the crowd that yes, he is mine
And I am his.
There are parts of me I love,
Slender ankles, fragile eyes,
But too many that I hate.
So it is impossible to believe someone
Who tells me that I am deadly
Until those parts are blotted out, fixed.
I will continue to deal with anorexia and depression,
States that will always threaten to asphyxiate me
And I understand these are things that most people can’t understand.
This sort of continual struggle
Which I let creep beneath my thoughts
Every single fucking day.
Parts of me that are locked away,
Quietly pushed to the furthest corners
Under the bed
There are dreams of coffee in the morning,
Cigarettes after sex,
Fingers down my back,
And falling asleep on his lap.
But I am unsure of what to say, and how to act
So he won’t feel oppressed or worse
I swing between extremes,
And there is no in between.
I live explosively, and that’s not something
Easily accepted.
Terrified of all these rules and warnings
And reining back,
I would rather be alone.

- Le Love

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