National Poetry Month 2021

I was convinced, probably by way of movies and songs, 

that love was what cured, but I was all wrong.

Love was sex, love and lust,

It was everything wrapped in a trembling hush.

A ball of muscle, a mouthful of spit

I wanted love to be these things and whenever it quit

well then, surely—it wasn’t it. 

I honored kindness but preferred indifference. 

I enjoyed benevolence but settled for ignorance.

Love was something abundant inside me, 

Love was serendipitous, random and free.

Love chose me, 

I did not choose it. 

I believed in witchcraft. 

I believed with enough charisma love could be cajoled. 

Love happened, and it would stay there with no effort, controlled.

                        Once it was, it always was. 

I loved with conditions,

without intuition.

I set an intention with all of my fingers.

I was convinced, but now, I don’t try.

I work hard to not get sidetracked by all of the lies

I convinced myself of while my head was in chaos, 

instead I take time, to go on hiatus. 

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