As my body is losing its breath, my only thought is the word love. As intensifying and heated the situation I’ve found myself in, I cannot help but to hate the four letter word that got me here. The irony of a word meant to be used and described so beautifully, now being the target for the interpretation of my life’s most undesirables. Here in this predicament. Here, this well of poison, disguised as a dipping pot of holy water. As if the little girl in me ever had come to know love, I am bound by the hands of a man whom I allowed to experiment his virulent love on me.
And in the quick moment of ability to catch my breath, the ever so desired has become the ever so disgusted. In that moment, I was certain— there was no love to be found anywhere. The love of a liar is the worst love to receive. And as hands noose knot my neck, thoughts of clarity and oddly enough, an invisible power decided to appear and follow suit. There was nothing I could have done to prepare myself for a moment more destined. A liberating moment of control. A white noise wave of flashbacks and reconnaissance of what my love life had actually been. Platonically and romantically, all encounters of love scattered my brain like a falling game of Jenga. A moment of sudden realization. The comprehension of what typically would make others fold, lose themselves, self immolate…
As time goes by the expectation of love disappears into the shadows. A vast majority of people can only ever imagine true love instead of actually receiving it, because the normality of today’s love is as exhausting and daunting as bleacher runs after a day of any sport practice. A lot of times, love is confused with the simple saying “I love you” rather than the actions involved. Befuddled by the caressing of a thigh, the gift of money, and penetration. Bemused by a sweet smile, manipulative tears, and open legs.
The truth is, love doesn’t get the flowers it deserves. I point the blame on the actions of others, as well as the conclusive defining of this small word by those who experienced a particular version of it. The articulation of love is done so incorrectly more than often. Well- articulated differently each time those with contrasting experiences of the 4 letter mash up, discuss. Honestly, I cannot say that I do not or did not believe that love is hard to come by as others state. I was once unable to communicate what I believed love is, looked like, or felt like. I would lose the ability to speak when a word as such came about in conversation. Losing the words as easy as losing car keys. And as I tried to release any positivity of love, my mouth dry, cotton filled, and in dire need of just a quench of love. I knew at that exact moment that since I begged, even as a young girl, to know love, what I received was just as unexpected as any box of Valentine Day chocolates. Learning, amidst the circumstances, I could only be ever so grateful for experiencing this type of love so brutally given. Yet, although I don’t believe I needed to experience the revolting “love” given, knowing what it was allowed a metamorphic paraphrasing of the definition to flow so effortlessly.
But I was also once able to narrate the only known love there was for me. The absentee of.
As empty as my love jar sat, I still pressured and tried to get any instance of it out like the last squeezes of a ketchup bottle. Yearning for just a touch, a taste, a fuck of love. Which resulted in what most do. Ignore. DND the waving red flag and choose to pick out the good to stay and convince yourself it outweighs the bad. Oh the satisfaction of ignorance when just a piece of half-ass-ness arrives. The inevitable distraction of self destruction from such lack of this one tiny word. All for L-O-V-E. We ignore the signs and produce barriers between oneself and the true meaning.
It is only until you sit down and examine, study, and admit. Love will never elucidate itself to a person in denial. Denial of the state of love they are giving or receiving. Once that blockage is overstuffed, it explodes like the companionship of Mentos and Coke. So how can one be expected to know the outcome when all it’s known is denial? Unaware of the true outcome because believing that the kiss and “I love you” once this is all over, will sew the wound up. A sutured soul of an undeniably inescapable sadness. A constant seesaw of they love me, they love me not. Picking dead petals off the ground in hopes to create a paper mache of what’s never to come. Ripping, dipping, and pasting inadequate, mix-match pieces of two love lives that were never supposed to be. A saturation of arsenic, impersonating the desirable… love. What you’ve fancied has become your biggest regret. Like the morning after an overconsumption night of alcohol.
And suddenly, as hands unraveled my neck, so does the definition I once had of love. As I disintegrate inside of my body, I dissect the years of misusing the definition in just a millisecond. Recanting all of the times I’ve said that three word phrase to anyone. And just like that, 6-minutes of chaos. Realization set. Spread around my soul like a black woman lathering raw shea butter down her Hershey flavored legs. The articulation of love is now as translucent as it’s ever been. An awakening so beautifully rewritten. A personalized euphoria that gravitates toward a starvation so unfamiliar due to the new found nature of these four letters. An inducing pleasure of contentment, familiarizing itself with my well developed imprisoned mind. Curating a safety zone of what should have been but couldn’t come too prematurely in order to save the best for last, like the “red ones” in a starburst package. And just as a neck became released so did the obligation of self rescuing. Love revealed itself in the most precious way. In the time of desperation and detonation. And just like you or I deserve our flowers, so does love. For its generous throw of the fishing line into the water, offering and awaiting a bass pull on free bait.
For elucidating itself in the most traumatic times.