8 – Scarmaker

And today’s is done in twenty minutes. Obviously I need to stop forcing myself to stay on topic. I can’t write poetry on-topic. I just need to free associate with the rhymes and rhythm until something cool floats up, and figure out what it all MEANS later. Or make y’all figure out what it means. What’s my cult for if not to wildly interpret my incoherent gospel?

This one is about that bad love. It’s not about any one person in particular; there’s imagery from a few relationships I’ve been in that were bent in one way or another. Here’s the thing about that… people tell you that you “have to learn to love yourself before you love someone else.” And I think that’s bullshit. I think you love other people BEST when you love yourself, but if we all waited till that day to love someone, a lot of us would be alone forever.

“Anfini’s Beast,” June 2006

You don’t learn to love other people well by sitting alone. You will make mistakes, you will have relationships that are kind of fucked-up, sometimes YOU will be the one who is fucked-up, and all of that will teach you a great deal about how to love and be loved. The bad love you’ve had is not worthless. That time was not wasted. It made you who you are, it taught you what you want and what you sure as fuck don’t want, and it taught you some things about dealing with another human that you can try on the next human you meet. Maybe they’re into it, maybe they’re not. You keep trying, keep loving. You’ll never do it perfectly, but I promise you, doing it badly will be part of how you learn to do it well.

So this one’s for Procell and Macha, Pearle and Elie, Haven and Adsartha. It’s for Brock and Jeremy and my mom. I love the scars you gave me.

At first I saw you in the finger-hooks,
and took their plaster kisses for your love.
I let you tell me what you’re guilty of,
and I assiduously read your books.

I did your will without daring to look
(Avoid the pinning eyes, avoid the shove)
I learned to dodge ballistics from above,
and let you call me “monster,” call me “crook.”

I carried messages between your eyes,
I let you carve your words into my skin
and read them back to tell you where you’d been,
became habituated to your cries
and as I closed the box and sealed you in,
I whispered that I loved you for your lies.

Check out the rest of the 100 Sonnets

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