by Anahita Monfared
(This is only the text of For My Love. To view the original formatting, please look through Issue Two)
Sometimes the poem writes itself
The songs sings itself
When I look at you
the love doesn’t need any pushing
No one ever teaches us how to love
But they all make a point to look at us really weird
if we don’t know how to do it right and the truth is
In love, some of us need our training wheels longer than others.
My love, it is not your fault that I’ve a shapeshifter for a brain
I cannot regulate my emotions to save myself so it’s
no surprise that when we are together we both
twist and curl
of my m
It is not just you.
I often feel betrayed by this place too.
Home is not always a place where you
feel good, rather,
a place you know to be more familiar than not.
And I want to move out, I do.
Somewhere where the laundry machine of my stability doesn’t break
down constantly, the water always runs at the temperature it is supposed to, my
jealousy gets caught in the traps I leave for insects,
instead of the space between us and there is room for all of my baggage
without us feeling claustrophobic.
I don’t mean for you to keep tripping over the clothes I
drop on the floor.
It’s not fair that there are never any
clean dishes when you come to visit.
But I don’t know how to pack up my belongings
without breaking them.
I’ll agree that this home
is not ideal, but it is the closest
semblance to shelter
I have ever had.
To move somewhere new
would be to admit
there are better homes out there,
and that I am worthy
of occupying them.
Sometimes, we know the answers
to the questions the teacher asks in class
but we fall silent when we are called upon.
There is fear in admitting knowledge
when it demands of you to change.
The truth is, I know there are so
many renovations that need to
take place here. I just don’t know
if my ego can afford them.
For example, I still can’t tell you how I feel
without the use of a metaphor as a barrier
between me and my shortcomings.
Because to call them what they are would
be to admit my insecurities are a second skin
I never learned how to shed off.
Meaning, I am a walking cry
for help and you cannot keep being
the phone operator who answers.
I want to love you, not lose you as you
become another problem I run away from.
But there is so much shame piled up
in the dust bunnies beneath my bed. The guilt clinging
to my cotton sheets tucks me in every night. The water runs
too hot. The bath tub spills over. Every time I try to
vacuum, the circuit overloads, the electricity jumps and it
becomes me, every mistake I have ever made in love
and the dark staring back all over again.