I wish I could write poetry for you that wasn’t from a place of pain but honestly my words come from acid in my stomach not blood in my heart
Whenever I’m happy I feel no urge to write so you only see my venom oozing never my heart pumping
When I’m happy I just want to hold you and say I love you I love you I love you I love you with no finesse or refinement
My mum told me I have a forked tongue, that my words were acid and she was right. When I’m angry I am sharp, precise, I hold a scalpel
But when I’m in love I’m like a kid with burned fingers, wearing thick gloves, trying to paint “I love you” with a swollen tongue
I make people sick of hearing kind words because I can’t sex them up. I feel love with a single minded focus that elides articulation
My love is meat and potatoes love. Vanilla love. Plain love. Not artful love, expressive love, exciting love.
Poetry is the art of complaining for me. The art of holding up a picture of the world as it could be, of the faults and cracks.
But you are already just how you should be. I love you. I love you. I love you.