"Peel yourself up off the bathroom floor
and stop feeling so fucking sorry for yourself.
It’s not like it’s Valentine’s Day and you have
no one to love. It’s been months and you’re still
waiting for someone to kiss you but this is not
the worst that you’ve been through. You always
said you were going to do better so start doing
what you want. Wear more red. Cut your hair
like a boy’s or grow it out so long you need
a procession to follow you around and carry it
behind you like a wedding veil. In this body
you sit and sit and wonder who’s going to ring
the doorbell next. You can’t make anyone love you.
In the kitchen your mother mixes salt and sugar
and flour together and you could mess this up
but she’ll still kiss you on the forehead and say things
like proud and responsible and trustworthy
to the neighbors. Let her. Some days the sadness
will be so heavy you won’t be able to feel your hands.
So much happens inside of you that it can be hard
to separate cell division from your paper tissue heart
and you may never remember this feeling again,
but you are the home that you’ve built for yourself.
I know you’re afraid of losing those you love
but don’t you know we have all night."
"And I understand. I understand why people hold hands: I’d always thought it was about possessiveness, saying ‘This is mine’. But it’s about maintaining contact. It is about speaking without words. It is about I want you with me and don’t go."