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 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.
One thought on “The Crawl Space of Love”