I know that, in theory, love is supposed to be soft.
I have felt soft love, before, but—
for the last two months, love has been
sledgehammer to my nervous system.
It keeps taking me out at the knees.
For the thousandth time, I remind myself
that want and need are two different things.
I remind myself,
to be needed is not love.
I kiss like a seed trying desperately
to put down roots in wet soil.
I keep trying to turn wild animal.
He keeps trying to make a home from my skeleton.
Neither of us is doing this the right way.
In spite of that, we keep crashing our bodies together:
expecting someone to catch us even when we’ve become
sticks of live dynamite.
I’ve done this song and dance before. I already know
I will let him turn me shelter
even while my roof is leaking.
I’ll put my mouth everywhere that hurts.
I’m good at it: unearthing my foundations
and giving them to other people.
It’s no wonder I have trouble standing on my own two feet.
It’s no wonder I’m so prone to slide downhill.
Even then, I still believe in a love that will meet me
at my own altar.
A love that patches the holes in the ceiling.
A love who comes, heart in hand,
and means it.
The thing that people always write about me, which is almost cliché, is ‘Just watch out— she’s going to write a song about that.’ As if writing a song isn’t special. As if I’m living my life [for material], like it’s a trick I do…It’s not simple to write a song. The hardest times in my life have produced the songs that have done the best.