Wishbone

Are you afraid of love? I know I am. I have an elaborate, elegant fantasy where I'm not, but let's real talk. Love is that thing where all your secrets and guts come out and you hope no one pukes. Where memory no longer hurts you, where their names are not spells, where you don't have to fear speaking them back into life. When you put a message in a bottle and hope someone reads it. When you set sail not knowing if you'll go anywhere. When you bake a cake from scratch and then you give it to someone. When you wake up alone. When you painstakingly teach your baby to put one foot in front of the other and then one day they're walking away. When the world is dark but you still say sweet dreams.

I just mention it because a lot of folks are talking about love right now. How we should have it, where to find it, how we need it, but they're leaning into it so easy that I'm like are we talking about the same love here? This love, right, you mean the one that I conceal and carry and everyone is afraid of? This love, the one where I pulled a body out of my body and every day it grows teeth? This love, my pet lion, a fierce royal dangerous love I keep locked up at home.

Are you prepared for this color of love, this taste of love, this kiss that feels like a switchblade. My arms, a precious metal. My tongue, a barbed wire fence.

Love is love is love but it is also terror.

I don't have to watch the video to know the way Ms. Reynolds pulled all her sh*t together in an actual hell and had the wits to videotape the murder scene of her fiancé; a policeman's gun still pointed at him, her baby in the back f*cking seat. Love is ruthless. It is a nightmare. It is a lifetime of self defense training.

Did you see Ms. McMilllan want to lose it at a press conference about becoming a widow and then compose herself when her son, a young man who, no doubt, wanted to be a 15 year old pillar beside her, crumbled into a thousand emotional pieces on live television? Love is diplomacy. It is resilience. It is responsibility.

Listen, I want to love you. I want to love you so bad. This world, the new world. I want to love it gentle, want to love it sailboat, want to love it in the light. But, tell me, who has had the delicate luxury of loving like this?

If my love is anything, it is probably a wishbone. And I keep breaking it apart,

hoping it comes true.