I imagine you sitting atop a carousel of rotating women. A Merry-go-round of manic pixie dream girls, internet pin ups, drunkenly jumping from ride to ride. Evading ever being truly known or seen. Playing. I imagine no one taught you that women are your portal to god, your experience of divinity- and not your battlefield. We are not the grounds where you stomp out your psychic drama, the pain of feeling abandoned by god.
We have learned how to be mentally ambidextrous and limber- stretching and shuffling for comfort and care. We have learned to cleanse ourselves from the inside out. Take on two sets of pain and extract it, exorcize it, even without naming it.
I feel your pain like an electric hum that blankets us both. It clogs my ears and sends lightning through my arteries. I take the cord you have looped around my heart and cast it to the wind, dance in the firelight. Thank it and send it back. I don’t want to be loved like a healer anymore.
I want to be loved like a garden. Nursed and tended to. Laid out like sunflower seeds, plowed within blankets of rich earth. A living library, where daily action breeds miracles and strange fruit. Where service blooms blessings.
I want to be loved like the sea. Deep and mysterious, weathered through tempests and storms. Where your light fragments and reverberates across my surface and I crash it into tide pools and underwater caves. Where unknown sentience creeps below the surface. Observed from afar, but never owned.
I want to be loved like a temple. Treated like I am holy. A sun pyramid to be revealed in, where you go to whisper your most secret prayers.