All this woman is me.
All this love me into legend, hold me into forgiveness, forgive me into wholeness woman is me.
Yesterday I eclipsed in symmetry with the full moon. The men have loved me cyclically. And I have held them like a vapid autocracy. But love is a lover with bipolar tendencies. An excuse we sometimes use when we forget what we already know. A broken yellow moon. A bicycle with no brakes. The fragile wings of a moth drawn too close to the light, incinerated into ashes from daring to love too close.
But I want a love that will love closer. A love that understands how easy it is to unravel, like time, into itself. To hold on like a crumbling republic and hollow out all doubt into the basin of what was, what could be and what is always.
How do you tell someone that the way they love you in not the way you want to be loved? Like charcoal paintings devoured by the rain. Like drum beats getting lost in blood streams. Like all this hurricane heartbreak woman in me that refuses to love indifferently. Apologetically.
No, I love you steady as a pilgrims faith with a belly full of secrets and the ticking time bomb of history dancing on the residue of my tongue.