This Is Not A Love Poem

My attempt at being vulnerable

This is not a love poem, this is death row. I wish my last meal was your pussy, but  instead my last meal is this poem. This letter of forgiveness, a confession that I write to you, hours before the execution of my delusion.

This is not a love poem, but you are the only witness at my trial, at the Tower of Babel and the only witness I could have ever asked for. I was expelled once you realised I couldn’t speak your mother tongue.

This is not a love poem, but when you asked me what I liked about you what I really wanted to say is that I’m grateful every action I have taken has led me to this moment.

This is not a love poem, but in every woman after you I fear I will search for glimpses of how you made me feel.

This is not a love poem, but when I close my eyes before bed I can feel you touching my skin again. I have  never tried any drugs but I cannot imagine them to be more addictive than your touch.

This is not a love poem, but you cleaned the dust and blew into my third eye. You nurtured me spiritually and emotionally and now I fear I will never find that again.

This is not a love poem but if given the chance to relive it all again I would.

This is not a love poem, but when I day dream about you I can never think about any bad you did to me. Only the good. Only staring into your eyes on a chilly evening.

This is not a love poem, but I know I cooked for you because I hoped we could nuclearise our queerness.

This is not a love poem, but I’m not sure I have shown other people the parts of me that you have seen and I fear I might never see that again.

This is not a love poem, but with you, there was no prince charming ready to clean the blood stained sheets after the ‘I Do’s’ in front of a cheerful audience. Instead, there was us. I have desired before but i’m not sure in this way.

This is not a love poem but when you held a mirror against me engraved with the words saviour I realised that I love women the same way I want to be loved. To try to heal, rescue or save you is to try to save myself. To love on you felt like an act of self love. I was born to love gently.

This is not a love poem, but I have struggled to write this poem for two weeks because once it is down on paper, there is no longer any space for derealisation, once I turn you into poetry you are past and no longer present. Once you are poetry you are dead. Once I turn you into poetry you are gone. You have left me.

This is not a love poem but I do love you. This is not a love poem but you have changed my life.

This is not a love poem. You cannot have both your cake and eat it. I am not the cake. I am not the prize. I am not the reward. I’m the baking process. I’m the competition. I’m the recipe. I’m the mixing of ingredients. I’m the rain and not the rainbow. I am human. I deserve to be loved this way. Slowly. Intentionally.

This is not a love poem. In my list of crimes blasphemy is included for I thought you to be the Beginning and the End, the Alpha and the Omega, but you are but a leaf in my forest and a tear in my sea.

This is not a love poem because although I wish you would continue opening my third eye into orgasm, now that you are poetry our souls are intertwined no more.