/a wallowing wash of warm I use to clean my mug of tea


A Brief Notation on Love

It is no secret that most of my writing revolves around romance. It’s pretty easy to idealize love when we don’t know exactly what it is and our position inside of it — something I’ve struggled with I’ve tried to capture the feeling, the chase and the triumph of not losing what has seemly kept me finding a purpose — romantically and platonically.

Falling in love always seemed a little out of reach. On top of the basic struggles of a romantic relationship, there’s a lot of wreckage to comb through loving as a lesbian. I had to take measures to feel secure in myself and projecting it to the world. I needed to have the willingness to waltz into romance without fearing discrimination from the outside world. This took many years of learning self-acceptance, having challenging conversations and sifting through layers of sub-thought to reach this point. Pulling from a smaller pool than my straight peers, I have to find someone who’s gotten there as well. I’ve found that those two aren’t always mutually exclusive, at least not at this age.

I wrote a poem titled A Permeant Hug Would Be Preferred, an homage to wanting to find love and for it to remain stable, sturdy, unmovable. I write what I believe is the core feeling that keeps me by love.

From A Permeant Hug Would Be Preferred

I don’t want to lose that feeling of The Boiling; internal music that has not been written down, painting the inside of a cathedral that has been hollow for centuries; a wallowing wash of warm I use to clean my mug of tea

There are some indulgences in the power struggles that come from love. With the powerlessness I’ve felt — having a romance obtusely dangled in front of me when I was just thirteen — timid and confused, dragging for four years and never reaching any closure. Knowing that my current relationships are stifled in some way — reconciling for that emotional torment. Knowing that my mother does love me but no matter how slim the margin, I’ll forever fall short to meet what she truly expected in a daughter. Knowing I’ve skewed her hope — never to gush and flounder about a boy, never to be walked down an aisle to marry a man. Maybe, secretly, I’ve found the very brutal struggles of wanting to love to be just as thrilling and fulfilling as love itself. That there’s some kind of reveal and true exposure as to who I am when I barrel through the powerlessness. That I’ll always learn something new. That maybe, the fight for love is love itself.

From Little and Left Behind by Allie McKean

“Let it be known that the holes I dig myself into unrobe me with complete accuracy. Let it be known how that nakedness is the one I feel most beautiful about.”

Though I’d like to believe that we are, indeed, always in love — perhaps with the little things. Ordering a cold brew coffee, buying another pen at AJ Hastings, checking my watch underneath my sweater, strumming a guitar, that last stride on that four-mile run, typing the very last line of a poem. And there, there is no image, no expectations — no fear.

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