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,
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.