by Madisen Kuhn
his wife is making dinner in the kitchen while he
daydreams about my lips
another woman is thinking of me during a first date
with someone else
but i don’t really care about them
only late at night, after independent films
highlighted forbidden infatuation
but it’s not real,
not something i really want
in the end
i am repulsed,
repulsive
to those who believe that love isn’t real
love is real, it’s just not what we want it to be. i don’t know if this idealized version of pure love exists. the only people i’ve ever loved selflessly are my siblings. i would do anything for them, not for any other reason except that they are special to me, and i want them to feel whole and happy—i want to give them everything i wish i’d had. i want to see them flourish. i want them to know that they are loved. my love for them is not based on how they treat me. they are children. their imperfections are expected. but romantic love is different. we’re all fucked-up human beings with our own flaws and baggage, but we were taught by movies and books and songs that romantic love is the epitome of contentment . . . and it just isn’t. not to me. love is real, but it isn’t perfect. it’s messy. and raw. and exhausting. relationships are hard. being fully vulnerable with someone who could leave at any moment takes a lot of courage. your siblings will never “leave” you. even as you grow up and spread out, they’re just a phone call away. your parents will always be there (or at least that’s supposed to be the agreement—but parents are fucked-up humans too). loving someone and accepting them for who they are, but still wanting to see them grow, takes a whole lot of compassion and patience. choosing someone again and again requires so much loyalty and commitment. romantic love seems to be the most intense form of intimacy. your partner affects you in ways that your platonic best friend or sister doesn’t. i don’t know. it’s all so complicated. i think the moment we stop expecting romantic love to be something it’s not is the moment it all feels okay. embrace the mess. embrace the chaos of being in love. you will learn that your love story is complex, or maybe it feels very simple. it hurts sometimes, it’s fucking beautiful, and it’s hard, and it’s magic, and it’s yours. it’s all yours.
los angeles
i am melting in the living room
of a house below the hills
while my boyfriend makes music with his friends,
i can hear it pulsing through the walls
as i read on their couch
bukowski screams that i am unoriginal,
rumi whispers that i am a part of something more;
we walk to the diner down the street
where the waitresses have stick-on gems beneath their
eyebrows
and choppy bleach-blond fringe entangled in their
eyelashes
and we are sitting at the counter at 10 p.m.
on top of red vinyl stools
drinking milkshakes and laughing and
not caring about anything
besides one another
and i am
arms outstretched through the sunroof
first day of summer
dancing in a sea of people to your favorite band
waking up on a sunday morning with him
happy
two months
i moved to california. i got on a plane at seven in the morning to fly over mountains and waters and fields of orange flowers i may never lie among. i cried in the car on the way there, trembling with fear and disbelief in myself. i looked out the window, thousands and thousands of feet above my safe spaces, and i smiled. i laughed. i marveled at the clouds.
every day, i get to look at palm trees and look in the mirror to see new freckles that have bloomed on my cheeks. i get to look back at the reflection of a girl who took a chance, a leap of faith, trusted her heart to guide her and believed that the universe would never hurt her without purpose. i look at someone who was afraid, stagnant, dead in a spiritual sense, but chose to see that there was more out there for her.
i walk everywhere. the sun tans my skin and i breathe in the smell of marijuana and flowers and i smile. i get up in the morning and i wash my face and i do yoga and i meditate. i sit in public places where i feel vulnerable and alone, and i let the panic pass instead of rushing home, and then i stay out for hours, soaking up the buzzing feeling of a holy-shit-i-really-am-getting-better high.
i am sitting on my couch in my apartment, my best friend (dog) next to me, sipping sleepytime tea while my beautiful boyfriend sleeps in our bed in the other room. i still have fear that growls in my stomach—i am learning not to feed myself to it anymore. i moved to california despite all his friends saying i shouldn’t. and we are happy. and i love him. and i hope you get on a plane sometime soon, too.
move slowly
the world looks so different
smells
different
feels
different
when you move
slowly
watch your feet
take two steps inside of
a cement square
lift up one foot
and let it fall down like honey
i saw a hummingbird
for the first time
watched the wind blow through the palm trees
felt it on my face
smelled the purple flowers
on the sidewalk
didn’t think about anything
at all besides
here
and
now
and
slowly,
slowly,
slow
neglect
i always wanted freckles on my lips
thought they were pretty
the way they were sprinkled
across her mouth
i wanted to be pretty too
wanted to look alive
feel alive
but i sat inside
running my tongue across my teeth
feeling the plaque and bits of spinach
stuck in between
and i didn’t floss at night
i felt dizzy and breathless
lying on the carpeted floor
a fridge full of cold water
on the other side of the wall
i didn’t move
i dripped in sweat and bathed in tears
red sand sitting between my rosy cheeks
if only i weren’t so thirsty
shoshana
i will beg the universe to never let me forget how it feels to be young and with deepened smile lines and darkly freckled shoulders my wrinkled, old, and worn hands grasping yours, i will try to understand
kindling
he and i embodied ugliness for a long time. we fought habitually and were venomous and resentful. life is different now. our love is different now. the older we grow together, the more our hearts soften. our stubborn, blind, selfish hearts learn to let go of being right because mending and harmony are more important. i love him more than my stubbornness now. when he pleads with me in frustration, i don’t stare at him with disgust like i used to and think about how i need to escape. i try to understand. i see a man i love who is human too. every day i feel closer to him. i feel proud of him. of both of us. i feel lucky and in love and alive and at peace. i wipe my feet on the welcome mat, leave my muddy shoes by the door, and fall into a person who has become my home.
to my past muses
i wonder if you’ll read the poems
i wrote about you
and what you’ll think
if you’ll care
roll your eyes
bite your lip
yawn
laugh
cry
i’ll never fucking know
that’s probably for the best
i’m not sure why i care what you t
hink of me
i think i like knowing that i didn’t
leave a bad taste in someone’s mouth
i dream of you licking your lips
and tasting chamomile
you probably taste nothing at all
forgotten
intimate moments
of solitude
do not become memories
they are fleeting
rainbows caught in
midday sunlight
flowing in and out of
existence
i will not remember these moments,
painting my toenails on the front step
while my neighbor plays beach house
loudly through open windows
how the wind feels
how the aloneness feels
pure and new, yet familiar
how the contentment
the sureness
the mindfulness feels
like salty air sticking to your cheeks
on an afternoon at the beach
when you were little and nothing mattered
except for sand castles and sunscreen
i won’t remember the time spent with only myself
my mind will crumble it up and toss it in the wash
like your favorite pair of socks
one never to be seen again
i won’t remember
unless i write it down
because desert warmth
is somehow less significant
i don’t think it should be
21
a cold bath takes the place
of a space designed for breathing slowly
her first glass of wine tastes like pretending
her favorite color is green
it sits on her lips like desperation, like apprehension
like maybe all of this tension will go away
if i try what i’ve seen my mother do a thousand times
she knows it won’t work
but it feels okay. okay. okay.
okay. okay. okay.
i’m trying, i’m trying.
growing up
home is a tiny town and the blue ridge mountains
scenic trips down backroads with my sister,
listening to music while the wind makes our hair dance violently
sitting on my mom’s back porch at sunset
late-night runs to dollar general
fifty-cent sodas from the machine outside of the grocery
store owned by the family of my best friend from the
sixth grade
watching my brother’s baseball games at the park
but home is here, too.
the equinox
it feels like waking up
a dormant daffodil opening to
greet the warmth with ivory fervor
but it isn’t spring, it’s the end of summer
the sun has always been there
yet i hide inside the warm ground
amongst the worms and the rot
and pretend it’s okay
until i get a glimpse of light
a gentle and burning ray of reminding
of what it’s like to be open
coda
i’m walking my dog; the littlest one. he has his nose to the ground and his black tail curled upwards. i pass a man on the sidewalk with strong arms and brown hair. i hate his clothes but i love his eyes. he looks at me like a television ad; no interest at all, just a blank stare. when i get to my building, i see you. you’re tall and your hands are in your pockets. i’m not surprised at all. i always knew you were coming.
“there you are,” i say.
you look at me with relief shimmering in your eyes. you didn’t know what i’d do. you flew halfway across the world to stand in front of me and watch me walk away.
“here i am,” you say.
i walk towards you slowly, like if i move too quickly, you’ll blow away with the wind rustling the palm trees above us. i’ve dropped the leash and fin is running towards the busy street. when i’m close enough to smell the cologne clinging to your wrists, you tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. my heart slows instead of quickens. i feel calm. i feel seen. i feel you.
we step into my apartment and i’ve cleared my mind of anything else but you. all i can see is your tan skin and dark eyes. you sit down on the chair by the door.
you hold me like a child while my body convulses and tears dampen your shirt. i feel everything all at once.
you are here, and i am finally gone.
my head is swirling
spinning?
it’s dizzy and messy and blind
i knew things had changed when
i didn’t hear the door crack open
and see you standing there,
pillow in hand,
asking to join me on the couch
i sit on the sidewalk like a shiny penny
waiting to be picked up or for my glistening
to catch the eye of a stranger
but instead they are chattering and laughing
and completely silent
their shoes leaving black scuff marks on my surface
slowly dulling me into the pavement and
i realize i am not anything new
just another piece of loose change
this is the second night this week
that you’ve shown up while i sleep
i dreamt you were crying and i felt that we could love each
other better than my past love
because you understood what it was like to feel broken
to feel loss
to have endured true tragedy and found yourself
heaving under the weight of it all and
you weren’t afraid to let me see you bawl and contort
you rested your forehead on my shoulder and
i knew we could love each other
because we understood
i’ve spent the day reading and writing and pretending i don’t have anything better to do. it amazes me that my grandmother had such beautiful script and mine is just god-awful. i think even if i practiced it would still be hideous. i’m very good at admiring beautiful things and terrible at embodying them. i think i’m destined to be an onlooker while everyone else blooms and is adored. even if their words don’t mean shit, they look pretty so they’re a revelation. it’s easy to seem wise and deep when you’re regurgitating sayings and thoughts that have been thought and said for centuries. but they are oh so concise and convenient and easily digested. sometimes i find myself wishing i could be so simple, so contrived, just for the approval and esteem. i am so addicted to the idea of being revered. a universal infatuation. i value it over genuineness and reality and substance. why? why do i hope for an unreliable love that is lacking in so many other ways? it will not remind me to brush my teeth or drink water. it will only braid my hair and feed my ego until i am fat with it, and he has found someone new to “love.”
i crave a lover who will write me poems
or at least one who will want to read mine.
i think i’ll move back home and
make a dozen boys fall in love with me just to prove to
myself that i am more than he made me feel i was
i’ve given myself to him for the past three years but i think
he wouldn’t like me if he really got to know me
despite sharing a bed for so long
he doesn’t really know me
not really
i am selfish when i am craving attention. affection. i won’t care if you have a girlfriend. i’ll let you send me shirtless photos and pretend that we’re oblivious to the inappropriateness of it all. i will swallow my morals and keep the ugly secret. you aren’t flirting, you aren’t getting high off the idea that i am looking at you in your boxers with tattoos across your chest and molten glass in your smile. you are just saying hello. and i am just saying it back.
but when i find a place to put
my love, i will fucking die for you. i will hand over all my rations until you are fat and happy, and i am shriveled and happy. i will follow you across the country and i will take care of your dog and i will do your laundry. i will love you even when you yell at me. i will try to kiss you when you turn away. i will write poems and you won’t read them. i will pretend that this is enough. this is enough. this is enough. this is enough. this is enough. this is—
but, jesus, he looks so good without a shirt on.
i don’t burn bridges
i just let them rot
let the termites eat away at the timber
forget they’re even there
until i return to my hometown
and it feels like a ghost town
no high school sweethearts to ring for coffee
no old study buddies to catch up with over gas station
sandwiches
no one to curl into with nostalgia
no rickety planks, no pile of ashes
just a muddy stream flowing through the green and brown
overgrowth
unaware that life exists apart from solitude
i used to read about how pisces are known for their self-sacrifice. he convinced me that this did not apply to me. but as i sit here on a sidewalk in west hollywood, thinking about how many times i’ve filled my suitcases to follow him around—to philadelphia, to sweaty florida, to hopeless delaware, to north carolina, to loss of self, to here—i realize he was wrong. i sat on trains, buses, planes, and drove miles and miles to give you my heart, even when you weren’t ready to give me yours. i gave up my own dreams to follow yours. you tried to tell me i didn’t have any, so what was the fuss for? but i never dreamed of being this dependent, fearful person, swollen with self-doubt. i never dreamed of having to look to you before making a move. i never dreamed of being twenty-one and ready to give up new york city, incense, and—. i didn’t dream of losing myself. but i did—i lost myself in giving myself and not knowing how to keep enough intact. i know you’ll read this (if you ever actually do) and think i’m remembering you worse than you were. i don’t resent you or even really blame you. i’m just excited to dream again, instead of pretending yours were mine, and that that was enough.
