for Ericka and Terence
There was a time when I thought all love was the same, conditional. No matter if you were someone’s daughter, lover or mother.
Turns out it’s situational. Occasional, and definitely delicious. But like eating too many chips and twizzlers after a long night and morning of drinking and drugging, it makes you feel gross inside. You take a minute before dozing off and involuntarily think about all the people you have had to sleep with — be intimate with — to find out whether it was really love.
I think some of those virgins have it all right. Let’s face it, we were born to fuck. And if you and the person you have waited your entire life to marry can’t figure it out after a few good tries, then you should just kick that innate habit altogether.
Sometimes I can tell by the way he looks and doesn’t look at me. Then again truer words have been spoken aloud. It’s all gravy though, we’re all in this together. We’re all trying to crawl into a little sacred hole of love so that when we die we know that someone is left on the other side missing and crying every night for us. Missing and wanting our warm and soft body that once fit so perfectly inside of their big spoon.
But I’m not worried about us. You and I have gone through a colorful path of wild and thorny flowers, yet they still somehow keep blooming and smelling, like, really damn good boy.