You will put up with so much if you think it is the choice between that and an empty plastic bag to carry from land to land. I taste how it pains your heart to show up at the door empty handed. I know you would like to be the guest who arrives first with a plethora of rose stems. I would like you to be the one in the Jacuzzi whose nose is full of bubbles.
You have two options, my sweet, and neither of these is being the right person in the right place facing the right direction. You are slumped and slalomed in a bed of your own choice. You are drunk and dashing in a city of your own choice. You are a wild pony in a corral of someone else’s desire and you cannot stop bucking even though it makes your backbone ache.
This is the inevitable price you pay for having a heart. It is expensive. Did we ever tell you it would be cheap? Did we ever pretend that it wouldn’t cost a whole sackful? This is the inevitable concession to complete immersion. You will put up with it when you believe it is more important to be a thing in the world than a thing who is right about the world.
You put up with it so that you may have a heart to take outside and show to the ones in the houses all down your street. You soak yourself in the bucket of ammonia. I know you are ashamed of your valves, you steal bleach to strip the stains you are so sick of hefting. Darling, please. There is nothing more adorable to me than the fingerprints on your skin.