Love will kill you

You are the main character even when you lose the plot

You, you, you. My head aches, my back holds the same knot for a decade I’ve ached to know You.

You, you, you.

You, the one I write of.

I could say it is God I speak of and that would be true — however afraid I’ve been of admitting it — my longing for the impossible persists. Is it though? Impossible?

You know what, it is possible. Because I choose it.

I’ve been writing you into existence.

How many thousands of poems, summoning your presence? Have you read them? Have you been any of the men? All of them?

Words trail away…

I needn’t do anything but hold the vision. Remain the Woman unwilling to settle for anything less than the Miracle you are. You, who inspires me from realms unseen.

The last centimetre of a candle flickers away, wax evaporating into what? Something I’m breathing. Something that shifts my composition. A bottle of ink wells before me — oxblood. My blood. I gave you so much blood for free. How was I supposed to know you were poison? Now I see why you ate so much candy; not even a gumdrop of tenderness in your veins, swollen with need.

No wonder I wanted to claw into your skin.
The frustration of one I could not understand.
The anger of another “it’s not him.”
The sadness that I let myself be taken.

Where is Liam Neeson when you need him?

The sadness. A heart opened with nowhere to land. A landing space in myself, though.

What I know is I am any thread of energy I want to be. Any shape of mirror. Any shade of blue. Any afternoon.

You knew me as a long lost memory.

I knew you as a whisper of a scream. A half lit chandelier threatening to tear down the ceiling. Too heavy for its own anchors.

You knew me as the golden you wanted to drink. And I?

500 miles of heartbreak.

I forgot how good it is to be loved by someone. Held, selflessly.

You never even gave me a necklace.

The Goddess is pure adornment. Maybe you were coming to realize — I am that — through all the soot in your eyes.

Not the last time. But the time before that, you got violently ill the day that I left. I suspect your body sensed its energy supplier cut ties.

She refused to be forsaken. But I had to come for one last swim, just to be certain.

One month later, everything changed. I want nothing to do with you, and I hope you don’t take it out on your mother.

It was strange when you told me how your mother warned the other girlfriends about you — but she didn’t warn me.

I have a habit of learning through paradox. Heartbreak mainly. How deep can I burn before I learn it’s the end?

This time, I learned there’s another way to ecstasy. Relentless, reverent Love for the dream I’ve been writing. What I learned is I won’t need Him when He arrives. I will know Him. I will search every freckle, every eyelash, every gaze. I will search every breath and the way that He stands. The kiss will reveal everything. With you, I was left wanting — not for more — for something else entirely.

The day I returned from the last swim, I vomited chocolate covered espresso beans at 3 am.

I told you I was sad.

You told me, “you’re the victim.” And still, you wanted me to stay.

That you’d let me told me everything. And I left.

The cowboy ate me ever so gently, kissed me like there was nowhere to go. He gave me a black diamond necklace, an open heart shape. I put it on today. Will he feel me? Or maybe the one who sent me the clay?

I’d been gone since April, if I’m being honest. Maybe even last September. When you left me alone in the hotel room and expected my attention to remain. How romantic.

Scrolling through years of photos I can see when I Lost the Plot. Yet I always came back, and when I did, you weren’t in it.

A woman can live a trillion lives if she wants to.

I lived two: with and without you.

90% of the time, my peace was mine. In the rest you arrested me with ignorance. Persuaded me with silence. I’m an only child, too, asshole. What a tired story.

A month ago I had a dream we were locked, with your mother, in a bathroom. She handed me a bag of peanut brittle and said, “I think you’re on the demise.” I told her “I’m just beginning to rise.”

Three weeks later you were standing on the outside, begging dogs to obey your will with little strips of bacon. Most of them were exiled from the contest, having a will of their own.

And there it is — the pattern — the way you tricked yourself into believing a Woman would salivate for your scraps. Or that my joy, my pleasure, my longing, had anything to do with your [ absence ] .

I’m not blameless — I stayed. I chose that. I chose it until a Vision of Reality cracked me into a different dimension, one wherein the Heart reigns.

The Heart knows a different reality. In which the lessons were completed perfectly. In which I am Love’s Righteous Mistress, bending only to her will of opening — for She is true and pure and lives in my bones and my poems are Her pulsing Gnosis and I am that awakening with every word freed, every breath slipped over teeth and tongue, every ripple of pleasure longing for me.

I am that.

I choose it. Love.

I choose to believe in the miracle that is Being Here, a vessel for that which is beyond story. I choose mystery. I choose openness. I choose nothing less than the Love I am, which is to say, pure receptivity to Love’s Brilliance.

Holy Filth
Lightening Darkness
Serious Vanity
Poet and Scientist
Precise Chaos
Embodied Paradox
Lightning of Tenderness

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