I expect the boy I love to carry a condom in his wallet and his hands around me when I ask him about the rain. We do not need to make love everyday. I just want him to want me, even when I no longer laugh at bubble gum wrapper jokes and feel a little less beautiful. Even when the zipper on my skin decided to clash its teeth and draw blood on our bed sheets.
I will forget the grocery shopping list. I will cut myself cooking his favorite casserole and drain it down the toilet after I taste the roof of his mouth. My mom never taught me how to cook. Every time she held my hands she did it with forks and knives and words that can slice the chopping board in half. She never blew the clouds on my burnt skin, so I will not know what to do when the condom breaks apart.
I want my body to stop lying to me. I want my mind to choose between coffee and tea, and not gin or whiskey. My boyfriend’s clothes has one hundred creases because my hands did not know what to do last night. If my mom was alive she would not tell me I’m beautiful. She would probably hand me a knife and ask me stop the baby from breathing within my skin, even if it means hurting me.
Albert Camus wrote that the only serious question is whether to kill yourself or not.
Tom Robbins wrote that the only serious question is whether time has a beginning and an end.
Camus clearly got up on the wrong side of bed, and Robbins must have forgotten to set the alarm.
There is only one serious question. And that is: Who knows how to make love stay?
Answer me that and I will tell you whether or not to kill yourself
I think I’m losing it—I don’t know what’s happening, what happened, but I look at you, I look at you, and I love you so much. Not because of anything you’ve said, or done, or anything at all. I look at you, and I just love you, and it terrifies me. It terrifies me what I would do for you.