COLLECTION OF PARADOXES

Every woman I have ever loved is still working out how to love herself. Has a closetful of ghosts and has been to a hundred funerals of the women she used to be. Wonders what wounds her mother carries that she will never know about. Hopes that the weight of the world doesn't eventually crush her, that she is strong enough to handle it all. Wishes a day will come when she can put it all down, give her aching shoulders a rest. Wants someone to truly see her and not make a feast of her kindness and dreams. Is forever hiding a secret hunger for what calls to her in the dark. Holds a universe inside her, but has been told to make herself smaller despite the paradox. Praise be that universes are not in the business of listening to anyone but themselves. Every woman I have loved has thought about it. The art of disappearing. To be here one day, and the next, like smoke, simply gone.

Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.

“Note to self: You’ve gotta do this for you. This is for you. This isn’t about anybody. Live for you. Honor you. Never lose sight of that.”

“I want a soulmate who can sit me down, shut me up, tell me ten things I don’t already know, and make me laugh. I don’t care what you look like, just turn me on. And if you can do that, I will follow you on bloody stumps through the snow. I will do your windows. I will care about your feelings. Just have something in there.”