Love is love until it isn’t.
When it’s no longer present in the heart or soul, we’re walking and talking with only emptiness making us whole. My eyes are trying to see the world but they can’t seem to grasp the slightest bit of understanding. Emotionless and void, working and earning, I am a woman completing every have-to-task bestowed on me. Grinding my cigarettes into the dark blue glass ashtray.
I’m sitting and watching the hooker look for a car. She is wearing leather pants. The day is too hot, too sticky for leather binding pants. A car drives down my road, she edges closer to the curb to make eye contact. The car doesn’t stop. She walks across the street and down the alley. Searching for more money, greed fed love.
Love is a hooker.
It’s one night meaningless merchandise, bought and paid for moment, teasing our chemically unbalanced brains. It’s waving lace over eyeballs and smells of something different, not clean but not smothered in an overwhelming body odor stench. Loneliness mildewing in the pores. Then they get a favorite girl. Each week perhaps the man looks forward to their one night. It is a strange, arranged relationship but it is their way of making it work. Their version of being loved and filling the empty space.
Love is my frost bitten heart.
I said the word “forever”. In my champagne colored dress with tulle and promises and pretty beads sewn throughout, I vowed. I can’t now. I can’t love him. Forever has an expiration date. No one tells you when it is or how it might happen. The refrigerator door has been left open and all the contents are spoiled. There is green mold growing on the cheese. The milk is lumpy and thick, permeating rottenness.
The plants set out on the porch and the frost came. It covered them in ice patterns surrounding once viable leaves. Now death is their mistress. Frost falls off at midday with the damage courting its repercussions. Death riddled gloves killing green once living plants. Hands touch brittle parts and they break instantly, falling to their death. Hoping for a burial, a ritual that will never come. Forever doomed to wonder aimlessly through eternal existence.
Love is my inability to make love.
It’s just sex. We’ve curated throughout the years the ability to turn on and swing the pull string fantasy into the off position. Light switch sex, flip it up and it’s on. Flip it off and the act means nothing more than an ambiguous half an hour. To numb the presence in feeling anything other than the pleasure. I shout, “Don’t mistake sex for love.” They are two separate entities in this household. Pleasure combined with searing marks wrapped around my neck for pain. Know my limits. There are no safe words or safe places.
There is the middle ground where I stop feeling everything. Shut my eyes and know it will be over soon enough. He will still loathe me and I will carry an undeniable raging hatred for him. Lying there in my used up nakedness knowing it was nothing more than another recycled moment. We’ve been reusing physical intimacy for lust and anger and hate for too many years.
Maybe I saw love once. Maybe it came under a tent in the middle of the woods when we first met. Maybe it happened against a rock in the woods. Maybe I misread the cues and never saw love. I glimpsed into my own perception and believed what I wanted to see, what I wanted to feel.
After all these words, love is dead.
It’s a rotten grime wafting through a place I no longer wish to live. Make me a promise. Never believe in the unattainable. Death is dead and love is dead. I can’t shock it back to life. I can’t believe in fairytale magic anymore. I’m out of belief today.
Love is dead. Something inside of me has died too.
Grieving, I still see life swirling around me. Kids riding bikes, knowing nothing of what love is.