Dear Lover

Dear lover,

​I write a lot. There are words scribbled on my palms, my arms.

Jotted in notebooks, textbooks, scribbled in the corners of novels I 

have read and reread. Words on the walls, on the floor, the ceiling.

The words don't stop, the feelings don't stop.

​But you knew that.

​Do not expect me to be like Rowling. I do not gracefully compose

masterpieces written in a cafe with light streaming through the

window. I do not slowly let ideas come to me, and once it is all

finished, bask in the beauty that is my work.

​Expect me to be like Van Gogh. I will be...brilliant. A work of art

in my own right. But I will not do so with grace, nor composure. My

work will explode into existence, under influence of music, and love,

and everything crazy. My work will bloom after being watered by tears

at one in the morning, and will die from the fire I create in a fury.

​I will be a whirlwind of an artist. A mad scientist. The type of

person you cannot begin to think to handle, but can merely admire from

a safe distance, where you are in no danger of being hit by

shrapnel.​

​Lover, you need to understand something:​

​The best work is created in chaos. In pain, in anger, in mad,

crazy, stupid love. The masterpieces of this world were manufactured

under chaos of life and death, anguish and suffering. Some people try

to fool themselves and say it is otherwise. Life lives for good love,

sweet love. Life lives for hand-holding, and sweet kisses, and light

touches. But fire makes a bigger reaction than water. Good things,

sweet things; they all have their place in this world. But they are

not passionate. They are not life on fire.

And lover, if you know me,

I crave the heat.

​I want intense love, love that sets off smoke alarms. I want

bruises, and to be kissed so hard I get whiplash. I want to run down

the street at two am and scream that the world is mine. I want to

make love, and make art, to paint a picture of the world that is more

than most people can handle.

​My goal is to make people uncomfortable. I want their skin to itch,

for their hearts to race, for their fingers to have an urge to grab

another body. I want to make them know love like they've never known

it before. People do not understand that life is not manufactured for

us; we manufacture it. And while we can sit around and wait for

someone to do it all for us, I prefer to go out and make my art on my

own terms.

​You find me beautiful. I am not. I am crazy and mad and I burn

those that touch me. I leave a mark on their bodies, their souls,

which is irrevocable. And you are in the line of fire to get burned

very badly. I have told you before that this is no game, that the life

I lead is one that will make yours very difficult. But if you've

chosen to stay, you need to know what you are getting into.

​You act like it's a game. This is not charades. It is Russian

Roulette without the gun, and if you keep this up, you are going to

get shot. No kisses will save you then.

​Lover, your hands are a gateway drug. They alone are my muse, and

they create worlds out of nothing but the swirls on your fingertips. I

am a bomb. I go off and leave nothing but ashes behind. Yet for some

reason, you have yet to burn, and I think that says something.

​But lover, you need to understand that life isn't always between

option A or B. The choice isn't always black or white, yes or no. When

someone asks for art, they have nothing in mind. All they want is

something beautiful to be proud of.

​I am your art. You need to let me blow up and out, into shards of

glass and pops of color. You need to let me explode into bits of

glitter and drops of fire. You need to let me become my own work of

art, because it is not for you to decide how I turn out.

​There is more than one right answer. More often than not, there is

no right answer at all. And because I am wild, because I am dynamite

in your hands, you need to understand that I am human, and especially

flawed, like you. I will lose my mind over why you didn't make the bed

in the morning, or the fact that the garbage bin was never fully

closed. I will be upset that you didn't hang your jacket nicely, or

you left the toothpaste cap open.

​And I promise you, lover, each and every time, I will come back.

When the dust settles, and the ash has stopped moving around, the fire

will have left behind a new addition to the mural that is me. To the

mural that is us.

​I am a whirlwind of an artist. I am raw, and I am crazy, and I

thrive off of love and passion, hate and fury. I will make you punch a

wall, but after that I will kiss the knuckles that hurt. My love is

strong, and its force is so great it will knock you down.

​Please do not be afraid to get up. Do not be afraid to come back.

To come home. To me.

​I will be here. Always. When the ash has settled, I will be here.

​Dear lover.

​I love you.

​Yours,

​A flame

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741