he’s just proposed on a bench out front of the townhomes they dream of owning. we’re sitting around our usual table on the patio of our favorite local bar, the wood blistered and attention-seeking under our frothed glasses and thrifted jeans. we are the older four, recognizable from the wars we weathered in our twenties, plus her newly minted fiancé.
“when did you know you were in love with her?”
he blushes. she giggles and recalls when he first said it – drunk in the passenger seat after a few beers coming home from some menial road trip. she thought it was too fast but said it back and said it honestly and made him promise not to mention it again for a while.
he says he knew that night and so he just said it.
we summon the bartender/husband to another one of us and ask him the same question. he says he just always knew. he tried to say it too quickly, too. made her uncomfortable. made him wait a few weeks before she let him spit it out.
i’m sipping on the usual mezcal my bartender friend concocts for me amongst a group of strong, supportive, incredible women and i wonder why i’m the only one who hasn’t figured her shit out yet.
i’m sipping on my usual smoke-spicy swill and i’m hypothesizing that i choose unavailable people to love because i’ll always have an excuse as to why i shouldn’t tell them. i’d rather break my own heart than let someone else wield the blade.
at my highest vibration, i don’t think there’s such a thing as saying anything so intrinsic too quickly.
on march 31st, 2023, boygenius released a song called we’re in love and i cried in my car as i went for a drive.
my friend and i call it going for a drive when we’re sad and we’re lonely and we drive hours to nowhere alone to feel nothing. equilibrium. it feels less risky than being home. i’m too weak-willed to steer my car off the road, no matter how intrusive the thought might be. i’m too uncomfortable imagining my mother crying.
setting boundaries has never been a familiar practice. sometimes the universe asks us to step into the villain role. i’m painfully aware that i’ve already been the villain (and rightfully so), and i’ll do everything i can to avoid that narrative. so fine, i won’t talk to you for months.
i’m waiting for the pain, eagle-eyed so that i can go radio-silent and have a good enough reason.
in we’re in love, lucy dacus purrs,
“i feel crazy in ways i never say
will you still love me if it turns out i'm insane?
i know what you'll say, but it helps to hear you say it anyway.”
it’s been a while since i’ve shared anything online. my social media is bare. i post a photo of the sky and hope somebody looks up. i post a photo of myself to devour rotten words like “hot” and “sexy.” i spit them out faster than i can chew. i read a bunch of poems in front of a room full of people i love and still choose to avoid reading the ones about love. i keep my love poems folded and tucked into my bra, beneath a silk shirt rotting away at the sleeve, because my dress is adorned with beaded hearts beckoning a hand on my thigh.
when i undressed, so did the love poems. the words frayed away.
i love you
say it back
i love you
say it back
i love you
say it back