I fear I am becoming incapable of love.
My heart is so wounded at this moment that I’m yelling and screaming at everybody.
The pain is sincere and I am filled with rancor.
I want to go into a hermit state because I feel that I am a dangerous wounded Griffen that was once filled with love. Now I’m incapable of it for it hurts too much and I want to scratch with my lion’s claws and peck your eyes out.
It hearts too much…
It hurts too…
We are incapable of love.
Could it be your mother didn’t love you enough?
Could it be my father didn’t love me enough?
Could it be the list of hurts that we have experienced throughout our lifetimes?
Of her who in 5th grade rejected your stuffed rabbit for Easter because she was Jewish and you didn’t know, neither did she until her parents told her.
Of him who in 5th grade was pulled away from me because he was white and I was black. We didn’t know of Jim Crow until they told us.
Of her who broke your prison of male virginity and broke your heart because she couldn’t find love herself because her father had fucked her.
Of me who fell in love with a ghetto man. A sick man. A tortured soul whose crack addled body I feared to find in a tent city on University because his heroine addicted mother gave life to him in prison.
Of her with whom you obsessed because you felt love was magical. You found it was not and was fired.
Of him who had your name but the flowing locks of Sampson, who loved and yet not loved me.
Of her who loved you and you may have loved the best you could. You wanted to marry the incompatibility and the sickness that was alcohol and unhappiness.
To him who was the David of Michelangelo from the City of Michelangelo. Curley haired architect with the Hazel eyes whom I loved yet not loved, but wanted to stick to. Because we need someone to help us heal and feel loyal in our healing. And though I didn’t love him, I cried and mourned when he left.
To they who in your loneliness you hired due to sexual desire. Was it perverse? I don’t think so. It is the most honest, for sex is not the same thing as love.
To them with whom I experimented for free to feel desire after broken heart, after broken heart. The fleeting superficial love of San Francisco and art and Mammalote’s Revolutionary Cafe and Lil’ Baobob.
To her with whom you reconnected, through meanness, in the the Mission.
To him who tore the rest of my heart. Though 20 years younger he was my one and only soulmate.
To her who sat on the beach in her madness and dropped the rock you bought for her.
To us who came together through sickness and broken hearts. We, both broken and transient, have stayed together these seven years.
I’m not sure what it means. I know that it’s broken like puzzle pieces yet to come together. Our puzzle is all mismatched, the pieces unfitting for we, neither of us, knows how to fit it together completely and it remains, some fitted, some forced, yet unbroken.
What’s to be done?
Undo, reset and put the pieces that fit together, together to form the picture that’s on the box.