The Crawl Space of Love

I could write a horror movie about how chilling true love really is.
Truly loving can be quite disgusting. First off. Everyone shits.
Even leaves the door open just hoping no one will walk in.
Love is not being someone’s everything.
It is being someone’s own personal no one.
Attention buried in a book. Praying
you just do the dishes of your own
accord. To have and to hold and
don’t ask for any help. Don’t
you dare get sick at the same
time as me. Love is touching damp
tissues that are not yours stuffed between couch cushions.
And chipping fingernails against dried-on egg.
A horror movie. Standing in the kitchen. Blood dripping.
From a paring knife in stitches trying to decide whether or not we need stitches.
Love is locked out of its own safehouse. Testing windows. Out of town.
And the pipes all froze. On your belly in the crawl space of love.
Mouse turds and torn up insulation. They don’t tell you this stuff
about houses when you buy one. We bury truth in our foundations.
We’re expected to figure it out all on our own.
Love.
Love is like that horror movie scenario.
The one where you’re at home. All by yourself.
Not a soul around for miles.
And your phone lights up.

And a voice tells you
you’re not alone.

Self Belief – Soul Knowledge

Ego is tricky business. But don’t let that fool you into thinking it’s an accident. It isn’t. Nothing in existence is. Ego especially. Self-belief. Confidence. Soul and body dance. Energy that is timeless, moving in a biomechanical cocoon that will inevitably break open too soon. And ego. Just might be the only shape the energy that is you knows to take. Self-belief. Soul-knowledge. An overabundance of spiritual confidence. Walking on coals. Stepping into the unknown. Ego allows you to break the thick mold of ceaseless self preservation. The little liar in your heart who tells you you’ll be fine. Go ahead and take off on an adventure. No one has landed one before. But then again, there has never been anyone quite like you.

It’s like the cape on a superhero’s back. It’s like their tight little red underwear. It’s like the only shield police officers carry are badges. Symbols. Ego was the only thing the Wizard of Oz had to offer the last four pilgrims to his temple.

Whatever it takes to get you to fake just enough confidence to put a foot through the door.

And more, eyes open, head forward, take on a world of villains who by all means are probably shaping their identity purely in unveiled attempts to antagonize yours.
You can’t adopt it all the time, and you definitely dare not abandon it either. Ego.
Being functionally egotistical. It’s like a raincoat. Just enough to persuade you to step out into the rain. But if you wear that raincoat all day, you can bet on sweat. You might have been better off without a coat at all. But you’re egotistical. Your belief in yourself is astounding. The whole wide world full with starving people. Every day they get a little thinner. And you. To them.
Look just like chicken dinner.

Ego should be light as feathers. Subtle as spurs. The spark of orange fire in the eye.
Everyone wants you for the worst of reasons. But that doesn’t exempt you from being.
Ego has every reason to stay quiet, sleep in. Stay hidden. But it doesn’t. No.
Ego wakes up and crows.
People say good morning.

Ego says I know.

You’re welcome.