love like medicine

i’ve been sick, lately.

i write a lot about being sick—

the fading of my vision

and the ache living under my skin,

nestled between the cracks in my bones.

this is not about that,

but it could be, if things were different.

i am very used to a certain kind of love.

not conditional, exactly, but

not unconditional either.

the kind of love that says

of course, i would do anything for you

but does not say,

it will just make me hate you a bit more.

the kind of love that’s like an IV—

it will always give you what you need,

but it will hurt,

and it will feel sterile

and impersonal,

and cold.

when you are very used to one thing,

it becomes difficult to accept anything else.

when you only know love that says,

oh, god, not this shit again,

it is impossible to accept

hey, it’s okay, i’m right here. you’re safe.

when you only know love that is rough,

that pulls you to your feet before you’re ready to try to stand again,

it is so jarring to feel

soft hands, pulling you into an embrace,

just to keep you from falling,

just to keep you from hurting yourself.

when you only know love that seems

burdened by you,

endlessly annoyed at the things

you can’t control, that you never asked

for any help with in the first place,

it is terrifying to consider

do you need anything?

i know you’ll be okay,

but i care about you.

i want to help.

i guess i’m just not used to it.

tenderness, vulnerability, caring.

i feel worse for not being able to

take it at face value—

i was once told that i’m too stubborn

for my own good,

and i think maybe that’s true,

because i’ve been digging my heels in.

sitting on a shitty college apartment couch,

worn out and starving,

i felt the stabbing pain of stubbornness

and the only thing i could say was

i’m sorry, i’m sorry, oh god i’m so sorry,

apologies crawling up my throat

like bile, like acid,

like all the nausea was just guilt compacted.

i expected something sinister,

something to shut me up

from someone who knows just how to do it.

i expected the sting to be familiar—

a hand in my hair, pulling at my curls;

fingers finding the back of my arm

and tracing a spiraling pattern.

i felt warm bodies next to mine

and there was a part of me that flinched.

and then there was a hand on my head,

gently brushing back my hair;

an arm interlocking with mine,

comfortable and safe

and not in the way that makes me sick.

i don’t know what to do with that.

i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry

like a broken record,

like the only needle to worry about

is the one scratching at my surface

and making me skip over my words.

i will hold it, i think,

the way it holds me.

i feel like a newborn deer with this—

mimicking movements,

but stumbling with each step.

take your time,

this love says.

i’m willing to wait for you.