Personal Love Affair

I want someone who I can take a photo with, flushed and brilliant in a mall booth that I can tuck away into the billfold of my wallet. I want someone who I’ll pull up beside, roll the window down and with the widest smile call them darlin’. I want someone I can snatch flowers from the road to tuck in their hair, and someone I can tug by the belt loops so our hips are flush and I can count the sun given freckles across their skin.

The words are sticky in my head. Coagulated and unable to seperate beneath the thick, viscous liquor running rampant in my blood. I want to lay on someone’s chest, and feel the exhaustion sweep over me like a touch until it thins me like confectionary spread too thin on bread.

But if the only one who can ever love me is myself, that is okay. I put my hand on my chest, and the one thing- the thing that has been with me my entire life thrums against my palm. And I feel it. That love— so pure, and raw despite the scarred exterior that just grows rougher the more lines on my face I develop.

And I feel warm. Because I am so much love. And that love is for me.