prison cells built on conditional love

honeymoon phases that make no room for pain

You want my attention? Love me as I break every rule in the book, then give me a kiss on the way out.

Tell me you can give me everything and then tell me I can be anything.

Tell me I could run in either direction, and your love wouldn’t change its mind.

Tell me I could unravel and your commitment would unwaveringly remain, just as the kitten chases the string.

Oh, how folks love a wild card….

until the breadth of her wingspan triggers a fear of heights.

I cannot fucking stand conditions,

…especially when most conditions are repackaged comfort zones being sold to me like lemons in a car lot.

I cannot fucking stand conditions,

…particularly the ones that appear after being baited with the allure of unconditional and ‘love you just as you are’.

I’ll throw you out of the nest before you tell me how to define free.

If we can’t feed one another’s hearts like birds spitting up every sick sentiment of love into the other’s hungry mouth - then that isn’t love to me.

If your love is determined by limits, signed in blood by the men who have come before you - then I don’t want it.

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I want an impossible love.

I want an impossible life.

Impossible and expansive.

I believe in conditions like I believe in bath tub plugs, or the crust of a volcano:

they exist but they’re sort of just for show.

If we’re going to make love, then we’re bending the space time continuum with the amount of light being generated from our bodies.

If we’re going to make a home, we're opening portals to other worlds and building stairways to heaven.

Nothing is a hard no.

Nothing is half assed.

And nothing will ever ask you to move backwards or become less of what you are to make it happen.

There is nothing that renders my rock hardness of my expansiveness more flaccid than … conditions.

Some people call them ceilings, others call them limitations; I call them a slow winding prison sentence forcing me to recoil from all things outward expression of joy, passion and presence.

I don’t want a love that feels like an animal being stopped by the reins,

I don’t want a life being helicopter parented by a small voice begging it to be more sensible.

I will not, under any circumstances - have my spirits broken for the privilege of being someone’s caged canary.

Give me a delicious coalesce that tastes untethered, because the idea of ‘restricted to, hingeing on, dependant on, contingent on, stipulatory, determined by and only if’ prison porridge, makes me gag like a bunch of sweaty ogre balls being served as a substitute for a nutritional breakfast.

What’s this idea -

that what you desire or deserve, is only available to you under very specific terms?

Of course a life filled with love feels out of reach, when in reach feels claustrophobic and taxing on the most authentic version of you or me.

I suppose this is the spell I’m casting under the effulgence of this 12th house crab flavoured full moon: I want the feeling of home, I want the wholeness that comes with finding home in another, I want the privilege of being that home to another, I want a home bursting with music and plants and laughter, I want the roots and the stability and the joy of my insides matching the outsides, but I need the distinct nature of my desires driving how that takes shape…and I don’t want to live with the paranoia of it being ripped away because at some point I will have irrevocably changed.

Is the same said for success? Is it built strictly on the back of inflexible trajectories, managed only by hard assed sea goats disconnected from their feminine?

I don’t want to abandon my gills just to be loved by a man who can’t breathe underwater.

The only condition I care for is, ‘stay kind or get left behind’.

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