Make you feel my love

“I’d go hungry, I’d go black and blue, I’d go crawling down the avenue. No, there’s nothing that I wouldn’t do, to make you feel my love…I could make you happy, make your dreams come true, nothing that I wouldn’t do. Go to the ends, of the Earth for you, to make you feel my love. To make you feel my love.” Adele

In the last week I’ve read three blogs centering in part on Lil Wayne’s “How to Love” video.  In all regards, the posts were well-written, the idea of love concise and thought provoking, and based on the comments the words rang true for the readers.

A lot of the discussion was tailored to how we give love, which in essence is what we can control. But I’d like to know past to present how people have felt the love that I’ve given out. I think I’ve adequately described my love several times in my blog but I’ve never asked in all of my heartache if the love I professed to give was adequately felt. I can continue to wallow in the pain believing I did everything in my ability to make you feel my love, but until I ask you directly about your thoughts on my expression, I’ll never really know.

This could be a 5 love languages discussion at heart: me trying to interpret your primary and secondary receptions through the time we spent. I may have even pointedly asked you and saved myself the guessing game. That doesn’t mean that with all my research and investigation you were able to closely interpret my desire to feed your hunger.

Reading VSB, Panama stated something so profound: “Without a paradigm on how to show affection and express love, it’s virtually impossible to know what constitutes actual caring.” I’d like to think that I know how to love someone, but I can’t be sure, you know? I try always to give the best of myself, but how do I know if I succeeded? Am I doing what Panama stated and “running after some elusive version of what love and happiness looks like, without even realizing that it actually is?” I’d like to have a nice coffee-shop discussion with the last two and understand what I did wrong and what I did right. I’d like to be graded effectively with professional development type feedback so that the next time I submit my love-resume to fill a vacancy, I look like the all-star who can fill the position.

I wonder if I’m just too full of oxytocin. Maybe my body produces and releases this emotional glue which binds me to someone else in disproportionate amounts; meaning that like a magnet I’m repelling the ion charged in the same way. On SMB, Most stated “The thing that intrigues me about this scientific approach to defining love is that because all of these feelings we have are caused by our bodies release of specific hormones, the love we feel for others is essentially uncontrollable.” I told myself over and over again, I’m not going to feel anything for this boy. And when I started I tried to nip the relationship in the thorny-threaded bud, but I couldn’t contain the desire to be around him, so I yielded. Until the last time.

Until I realized that I can’t domesticate a wolf, lonesome hunters cleave to their routine. And now I’m in the canoe floating downstream, by myself. Grrr

But I’d like to know from yours, and yours, and your lips… did you ever feel my love?

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I’ve been loving you too long

“You were tired and your love is growing cold. My love is going stronger, as our affair, our affair grows old. I’ve been loving you, a little too long. I don’t want to stop now. Oh, Oh, Oh. I’ve been loving you a little too long, I don’t want to stop now… Oh baby, I’m down on my knees, don’t make me stop now.” Otis Redding

Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds,

How many times will I fall in love before I’m loved back? Giving away pieces of my soul for free as I beg, barter, steal to replenish the hollow chasms that I carefully chiseled to let you in. Giving love that inspires passionate portraits, watercolor masterpieces as I saw off my ear to show my devotion. Did you receive my precious parcel? I hope it didn’t drip too much on your carpet. Sorry for that.

Or bends with the remover to remove: O no! it is an ever fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

I’m ashamed that I keep going back, laying my body down on the tracks right as the train toots its horn. I know you’re coming to mow me over and I anticipate the crunch of my bones as every kilogram of the boxcars chug towards its victim. Concrete sleepers cushion like the best hotel bed, my arms folded to pillow my aching head, fingers slightly outstretched toward the steam burning from the firebox, hoping that now; finally I’ll be reconnected to the other portion of my broken heart.

It is the star to every wandering bark, Who’s worth unknown, although his height be taken. Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle’s compass come:

When a heart is broken, it never breaks even. The different tears and cracks in the fragile design fester forming bulbous blisters, puss filled boils filled with the cruel words that you said but only I heard. I knew you turned off what little emotion you partitioned for me, but I never knew how abysmal the affliction would ulcerate. In plain words your actions have proven how I am a non-mothersucking factor in your life. The nonchalance of your inconsideration leaves me disrespected and you don’t see it because you refuse to look. Instead I’m being too sensitive, and in lieu of a simple apology you fall back.

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

I followed you faithfully, ever ready with my encouragement and compassion. Attune to the things you never say, I dissected your silence with my scalpel. Contrary to the harmony I thought I’d find I divested assets in an industry that lacks transparency. Ignoring my financial advisors, I gave you the key ingredient to the family secret: transplanting the last remaining root of the longstanding daffodil plant, I carved into the core, peeling back layers of protective flesh, white spots of poison trying to prevent entry but being the proprietor I counterbalanced its defenses. In the end you see the vision of glory, the tiny budded seed that I offered with careless hands to plant in your garden and grow rich from its flesh. Callously your well-worn hands maim and crush until the nucleus is deprived of healing life.

If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor man ever loved.* (Sonnet 116, Shakespeare)

And thus lands my love, withered by harsh weather and sober soil. I feel like a failure because I softly hoped that I could maintain and never give up. You said yourself that you didn’t want to read and understand what I can’t express in words. Hard-headed, I rolled through the stop sign when I should have halted the car, now without a seat belt I’m at the whim of oncoming traffic.

It will take me a while to realize that I’m releasing him, not rejecting him. Should he ever come back with a kind word or a sincere smile, I’d still be here waiting. But I refuse to make any more first moves. I pressed him to the point where like a turtle he retreated and yet I’m still banging on the shell.  And I keep stringently stating these declarative sentences, replacing question marks with exclamations, to slowly rest at the period, but actually replacing it with a common; because I simply allow more things to come.

I know this is your song… and it’s dedicated to you. The last one for a while. I can’t stagnantly sing sad love songs while you bop your head to your next destination. I didn’t choose this song, but it’s the first one that came to mind, because of its history, because I know it’s your favorite, because of the way you feel the music when every other tune inspires lackluster responses. Because I hope that when you read this you feel the shake and tumble of this rollercoaster. Because I hope you could find some feeling for me in the recess of your vacant cavity that pumps the same vapid energy throughout your body. Because though I’m tired of being in love with you, I can’t stop myself from loving you.

Hear My Call

“Lost here in the dark I can’t see my foot to take a step, What’s happening? Oh, this hurts so bad. I can hardly breathe. I just want to leave so… God, please hear my call. I am afraid for me. Love has burned me raw. I need your healing. Please…” Jill Scott

It’s funny (*dry laugh*) how they think that the “I love you” replaces the “I hurt you”. How in the midst of the whoosh, the wallow, the jagged thrust you believe your paltry romantic phrases will replace the stolen articles that have changed my life forever.

In what manner did my cries of “NO” allow you to hear “it’s ok”? Did you imagine that the gluttonous pat of your full belly would replace the hollow cave where untold treasures once laid? Are you so dumb?

Or maybe the simple selfishness of your need ignored the rampant bucking as you pressed your weight, forced your agenda, smiled in contentment as the shreds of a thousand years work crafting delicate and intricate patterns embedded with the words “prize”, “choice”, “love”, “present” binding me forever to the person I granted permission… you pillaged with the careless brunt, disarming my equilibrium.

It’s funny how much I hate you. How I’d carve tunnels in concrete with a spoon if I knew that at the end lay the knife to eunuch you. How I would rip flesh with butter knifes, hacking and sawing, until you felt the physical force of my rage as tiny drops of blood mingle with the numerous tear drops I cried at your expense.

Did you remember what you promised me? How many times did I have to explain it to you for you to understand that this was not what I wanted, that I especially didn’t want it will you. I turn my head to the side. I turn my head away. I let you finish. And you destroyed me.

The mere significance of the moment is nothing to the seed you planted that gestates in a cocoon birthing the only thing that I never expected: Doubt. You took more than a precious privilege with your unwelcomed entry. You took the only thing that lifted my head and helped me to expect more: Trust. You bred your hatred in my heart, disguising it as help; pretending that this would bond me to you irrevocably, when it only makes me what to disembowel you with chopsticks. I’d poke and prod you, jam you, corner you, and then ask you to shower.

It’s funny how I wish your kind never existed. That men like you who take every offering as the potential to seize more as I’m trapped beneath your snare unable to move. I HATE YOU. You, who smile at me with warm eyes after you’ve voided my existence by littering your trash at my temple, plundering your way into hallowed ground. Taking one card from the deck that can’t be renewed or returned.

I’d kill you if vengeance was mine. I’d haunt your very dreams if I knew that karma wasn’t such a bitch. Oh, but dear heart, you will get what’s coming to you. May the fires of hell be stoked to a blistering furnace to welcome your arrival. You, the snake in the grass that waits for my tender ankle to pass by, infecting my entire body with venom, shaking my core, suffocating my words.

I will not be silenced. The call will be heard for miles around. Head lifted, I refused to be caged. Free to spread my wings, I will fly.

It’s funny that after I finish hating for you. I will pray for you. I will ask for forgiveness for your soul (and I may even mean it). I will lift holy words for your life so that I may move on from your presence. And though I will never forget, I will survive.

Author’s note: This is dedicated to women stronger than me, and who are me at the same time. A light on a hill can never be hidden.

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