Two Types of "Love"

Marcus

He says that because he loves me,

he will keep me hidden from the world.

What he really means is he will keep me for himself.

He says that because he loves me,

I should not wear that yellow dress that I bought.

What he really means is “Do not look pretty. Do not entice others with your beauty.”

He says that because he loves me,

I should not make eye contact with the barista at the local coffee shop.

What he really means is, “Do not be a slut. You are mine.”

He says that he loves me.

What he really means is,

“You belong to me.”

He uses the word love

to trap me,

to take control of my conscience.

He uses it as an excuse

to dictate my life.

But I am not his property.

I deserve to go for a night on the town.

I deserve to rock that yellow dress with the fiery red heels.

I deserve to communicate with others,

no matter their gender.

I am my own property.

And because I love me,

I am leaving.

Conner

I gaze at him.

His deep sapphire orbs swallow me whole.

Like a whirlpool might swallow a ship,

crack it open so its contents spill into the open ocean.

His eyes do that to me.

My heart cracks, its contents are spilled, and he is the taker

of every fiber of my being.

He takes my trust in his rugged hands.

His long fingers fumble with wonder at such a fragile gift.

He drops it,

collects it from the frigid ground,

nurtures it back to health.

Next time he is more careful.

He does not drop it next time .

When I sleep he watches me,

synchronizing his breathing with mine,

Contemplating what my dreams consist of  

imagining that it is him, only him, whom I envision in my dreams.

It is only him.

The way his heart thumps when I am near,

the way his soft fingers caress my internal scars,

the way he handles me with such care,

as if I am paper,

easily crushed.

As if he is scared to scar me further

with folds and wrinkles

that can not be reversed.

He holds no fear in loving me.

He loves inexorably,

without pause or ambivalence.

For that,

I love him more.