Love is a jealous soul
Love is bleeding hearts spilling onto pages
Love is a candlelight that fills up a room
Love is the scar that greets you in the morning and follows you to the ends of your deathbed
Love is a black hole
Identity is never less than a mystery
But in this place I can scarcely grasp a sense of
This me I’ve built up over tears and troubled coffees
An illicit journey into a graveyard of rotting truths, burdened with past but gleaming with present
So I could learn to dress my naked self
Now I’m naked once more
My heart may overflow and I
Have never felt so much freedom
When I sit down to write, I find most of the words that come out are about love. Always love. I could try to write about something else, but my soul isn’t in it. You have to be excited to complete a piece on something and love excites me extraordinarily.
Love, love, love. I want to bathe in love. I want to sing its praises. I wrote this poem about how when you are in love, it seeps into everything you do. It’s all you want to breathe, think, speak, sing, and write. You end up writing about only love. You sing love songs. You look at couples and smile and gush because you can relate so much. Love doesn’t like to share brain space. It also has the effect of making every thought that much happier and more beautiful and more positive. Everything becomes clothed in a new rose gold light.
I also wrote this poem about how love changes you. I am often a sad and depressed person. I am lonely. I am anxious. But when I’m with my love, I am not. I am happy and I feel connection and I don’t worry about my purpose or where I should be headed next or whether I am doing enough or how to make the pain stop … because … I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else or do anything else. I’d like time to stop and leave me in this bliss. It feels right. It feels like the only place I could be and that is meaning to me. There is no pain.
When I’m apart from my love, I still feel this happiness following me. The sad and depressed parts of me appear sometimes but they are not adequate descriptors of me. Not anymore. I spend so much time obsessed over identity. I want to know who I am and I build up an idea in my head. Identity is so important that even if it isn’t an identity to be proud of, I’m relieved to know I at least am someone and know who I am. But love comes along and sweeps that all away. Love shows me that this identity isn’t me anymore. Love makes me a new person and I’m left wondering who I am now that I am happy and now that love is the only thing I want to talk about.
Do I become someone who loses their identity in a relationship? Do I become merely a girlfriend, and not a person in my own right?
The fact is, I don’t care. Without my old identity, I feel naked. But nakedness makes me free. I realize that there is no comfort in knowing who you are when you hate yourself. And there is freedom in being able to live in the moment – to be able to breathe and feel the joy of being alive. And, yes, loving. There is so much freedom in love.