god, don’t give me the ideal.
i have lived here too long.
now i can’t seem to love
anyone who is not a bit mean,
who doesn’t bite back.
i seem to only have the appetite
for unsure feelings.
i can only tolerate to hug
something that is breaking,
a breaking that nothing can stop or change.
and on the nights when i became aware
of my own faults and the end it is leading to,
i could only stop crying
because i was hugged back
by a faulty product of your factory .
thank you for breaking this world,
for breaking me
so slowly and so beautifully.
We are the mediocre television soap
that no one wants to see.
We have learned to gulp down bland food, bland life.
The books that get us jobs, get us friends, gets us love,
we have learned to pay for it without bitterness.
We adore the mania, the depression,
the moments when we don’t want to think clear-
that makes us feel alive,
anything like that,
we are ready to call it love.
In our small hands we carry
whatever meaning we have left in us-
the offering that no gods want.
We are ready to break for anyone
who is ready to break for us.
Everyday I dislike my love
for you a little bit more.
All this talk about convenience,
about being of use to each other
should not be called love.
If I love you because you understand me
then it is not you who I love
but anyone who can understands me.
“i am comfortable with you” “you make me feel special”
“you can heal me” “i like spending time with you”
“you listen to me” “you treat me well”
“you are beautiful” (how you look pleases my eyes and my heart)
My liking you
seems more about me than about you.
I am disappointed by how I love only for myself.
Why aren’t you?
I would welcome you into these
arms to cry out your grief,
If only I could leave my bitter heart behind
that only wants to be consoled
and never wants to care for anyone else.
That only looks at the world
to look for a face
who would take the blame for what it suffered.
There are moments of indifference
that once piled up
seems more than the years I have lived.
There are too many memories
where I cannot see anyone but myself
running around in a dark cave
afraid of everything I bump into.
Not knowing that even if I shout
if anyone would hear,
sometimes fearful of who might hear me.
And even though
you are out of your cave
and I am out of mine.
Now when we can see all the things we couldn’t.
Now when we can really see each others scars.
Now when we have the luxury to know each others pain.
it is better to pretend we are still in our caves.
For too many things have been done,
too many words have been said.
And we do not remember answers to question
that we wanted each other to ask.
I have never crossed paths with anyone
who knows how to love.
Everyone is trying.
Everyone is guessing
Not sure what love is.