Lost

I am lost. Profoundly. Miserably. Of my own volition. Because there are some places I refuse to be found. There are lovers I still recall with tears in my eyes and current companions whose loyalty I question. I drink wine for the taste... until I've lost all sensation in my tongue... and then I pine after the perfect boy to help me find it again. I want love the most when I seem not to. If I dote on you, you'll be forgotten in a week, a month at best. I mean no harm.

I eat what I like as often as I like and run when I feel trapped. The world thinks I'm beautiful, but I don't. I think those who celebrate me do so for my curves...my imperfections..the subtle turning out of my flesh. The fluctuations in me. Because I remind them that we are all human under all the things we buy to cover it up.

If I could do one thing that was not loving, I don't think I could name it easily, but it would probably be to travel. To see the world before it burns. Patagonia and London and the Amazon and the Painted Desert. The place where Mesopotamia fell and the place where the thing that replaced it crumbles-as if it was not built of strong enough stuff to withstand the pressure of people fighting over things they can no longer name.

I regret the last time I didn't say "I love you" when I felt it welling up inside of me. I would have been turned away and abandoned on the spot and there would have been a few days of shuddering pain, but I would have overcome it. And I would have carried around the secret knowledge of having been true to myself.

The last time I confessed my love, I gave him a comic book to show my affection. Because nothing quite says "Be Mine" like images that can't be corralled into a dull facade of monotonous text. If you can engage me intellectually, you can love me. That's the truth of the matter. I'm currently writing a kind of Rosetta Stone for use on First Dates. A way to decipher the esoteric code of my soul. I believe it's warranted.

I want to leave, but I don't know where I'm going to, and it's true in every sense. I have potential, but what's the use if I don't know what to do with it? The less you know, the happier you are...I am convinced of this, and I am convinced that I know too much.

There is either no one like me or everyone is like me-I can't decide which it is. In my world hope and despair embrace in
 an intimate dance and neither maintains rhythm without the other. And I am glad for it.