Published: October 11, 2007

Where I will not speak, where I am dumb, I want, that you hate my name. And I ascribe the pronoun, you, to this subject that hates, that there might be no one outside of it, or inside of it, for that matter. That I may paint a painted face, prepared an hour prior, on any little fool that I desire, or every little fool for that matter. And I do not by any means suspend the drawing pool as I define the “you,” a little fool.  Instead I draw the two together with a fishing line and I call them, one, synonymous. I do not discriminate, but instead make a statement of my perspective. And I am ill, admitted.

I wrote of you. That is either a bad or good sign. Never in-between. It means you have my heart in view. You can touch it. You have either maimed or fostered life in it.

I don’t love you and I want more. Nothing is worse than being shortchanged by someone you believe cares enough for you to recognize what you are worth. I would like to retract that—there is something worse and that is being shortchanged by someone who knows what you are worth, but knows that you care for them and believes that they can get away with giving you less. If this is the case, then I hate you. I hate you because there are two parts of me. One that has been bullied her whole life, and her conscious sister, her guardian angel, her soul mate. I love this woman. I hate anyone that would hurt her. I hate them passionately. I weep vigorously. And I must love you, to hate you. However unromantic. I flinch and recoil, a weep. I wish to vomit. Somehow, your venom is inside of me, you’ve rotted where your hands were invited, too close to the organ that bleeds for a living. I remember this emotion.

You feel like the color blue.

I remember this emotion. Do the right thing, the right way, and you can just about count on it.

I understand what my mother taught me.

Love is a moving emotion. It is not the usual kind. It has a heart. It has breath. It has its own mind. It thinks in colors that you wouldn’t suspect it to, like black or green. Green love lives like tangles, growing wild wrapped around your legs. Loving green comes first. It’s vital and healing, and for everyone from those who love themselves. That love requires a personal acquaintance, and a reflexive one. When I feel green love for myself then I can feel it for my comrades. And I am living, beyond prejudice and inside of caution. I am blossoms. I have them for you.

I love you everyday. I suffer, for no reason. I am a martyr, without a cause, I am a perfect fool. I am not in love with you, although my brain responds more acutely to your hand then ever before to anyone else’s. A kiss on the back of my neck, my synapses spent furious.

You have requested the kindness of support and assistance, but do you have any intention of returning this favor, do you understand what that means? Won’t you even extend gratitude? And when I have spent my song, will you regard it? Do you know, that this is love? And love is the only way that I can offer that, do you know?

I want to say that I believe in selfishness. I wish you were myself and thus I regard compromise. I believe you are myself and thus, I love you, and compromise is the least of the first things that I understand. Amongst and beside it, you will find generosity. I will always take, without any logic or act of intelligence, the things that sustain. There is nothing in nature that wouldn’t do the same, unless intelligence, mauled and ill opposes it. Yet, distinctions begin to dissipate, and you recollect, resembling my soul mate, the woman that I harbor beneath earth, like skin. I see you start to look like God, because between my eyes and your image, filtering, are my most beautiful emotions; love, compassion, admiration. You are dressed in God. I desire you.

I see life that way. I extend love wherever my arms know government, what of, belongs to me. You take advantage. You are not ashamed to take innocence for granted? I am unarmed and you dress arms against me. You take up arms, you flex power. I think of the many who receive these gifts and are grateful and I think that I do not need you. I should get rid of you, or I should remain, as I am, who I am, and love you, forward, into your bayonette. I am waiting to hear that you are bluffing but your arms stay up, you check your ammunition. I feel a shot and you have not fired, not specifically. I am sick of something, one of us, you or me.  Am I weak if in fear I go ahead, or move ahead in spite?

I do not belong to you. None of the women you’ve spent your life on have. Forget titles or contracts. We are autonomous. We are, as you are. We exist! We are one team; the same team. This is civil war.