love poem for the post-apocalypse

I drink,
at times to pacify the part of me that is still waiting,
that wants.

history tells me that is is a woman’s place to be patient.
tenacious and defiant.
to heal, but never necessarily to be healed.

to have a heart that, like the earth
grows fungus to purify it of toxins.

equilibrium is not mentioned.
enlightenment can only be attained as a singular entity-
we dwell inside our heads as notions.
as creatures of habit and circumstance
capable of a marvelous freedom
that we, by choice, forgo
in the hopes of attaining something that doesn’t actually exist.


love as it has been presented to us, force fed us since birth.
love that is not love, but infatuation.
obligation and codependency.

love, is a proverb.

it does not have synonyms.
it cannot be accurately described.
it just is.

and it’s never enough, is it?


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