lywreecism

I don’t know what love is; But I look at my mother, And she always gives us One extra piece of fish, Even if there is none for her. She keeps her sorrows to herself, And she never asks for help Cleaning the house, or doing the laundry, or cooking for us all. Maybe, love is sacrifice. But I don’t know, She expects me to be a version Of a boy I could never be. She would never say, “I love you” or “I am proud of you”, But she tells me things That makes me want to Crawl inside a hole or Bury myself alive. And I can never tell her How much she hurts me Because she says She does it out of Love.

I don’t know what love is; So when I fell in love With a boy, I became My mother. I gave him my all. Love became labour for me. I also cooked, cleaned, and Did all the laundry. Give sex when he wanted. And eventually my love withered. I learned the hard way That love doesn’t stay If I feel unseen. So when I caught him cheating, I didn’t scream; I didn’t beg; I kicked him out. I got drunk, and I Cried my heart out alone In my bedroom. I could not get out Of my bed for Months. Because I felt my love Just wasn’t enough.

I don’t know what love is; But when I look at my friends, Navigating through life, My heart fills with warmth. I could never handle them suffer, Or be in discomfort, Or struggle in any way. It took me years to figure out How to be present for them. And how sometimes Letting them figure things out On their own Is the kindest thing to do. Maybe love isn’t just About actions but also about Inaction; letting things go. But again, if I don’t reach out I get complete silence from Most of them till they need My help with something. Maybe love comes with Terms and Conditions attached About how useful are you To people, or worse; That they are not really friends In the first place.

I don’t know what love is See, I have been cruel to myself. I skip meals, I struggle making Boundaries, I give labour Till my body breaks. Maybe love comes at a cost. I chase the grand love Poets write about But I never see it in the world. I have seen men philosophise About love and fail to practice What they preach. I have seen women enslaved In the name of love. I have seen women begging To be Witnessed for the Labour they do for love. I have seen women Spend their whole lives Searching for someone to Just hold them lovingly. And I have also been all Of those women.
Maybe love is just fantasy of men Who discards the labour it takes To love somebody in their entirety. Maybe love is just work Noticing, Being Kind, And Picking up after each other. Maybe Love can’t exist alone; Maybe Love is a collective. I read in a book that the First sign of love was someone Who carried someone with a Broken leg and waited for them To heal. But now we need Self-help books and reels on Social Media to tell us How to fall in love with ourselves.

Maybe I don’t understand What love is yet. Maybe I’ll never know what Love is. But that is okay, I am gonna Seek it out anyway. And when I am old and frail and on my deathbed; Ask me once more about What Love is. Maybe I’ll have something Better to offer than this Lousy rant of a poem.