I saw a picture online of
a friend of mine
I haven’t spoken to
in over a year,
and the old romantic feelings
came flooding back.
There was this sort of
helpless desire to let go
into her photo,
the way I used to jump
into some rapids, lean back,
put my feet up, and enjoy
the ride of feeling like
I deserved to be loved.
It makes perfect sense,
since, as a kid,
I was a thrill-seeking nut
who liked jumping into things
with no bottom,
because I wanted so much
to prove I could fall
off the edge of my dream
to be somebody revered,
and have plenty of time
to fly into a way of being
that was even more admirable.
The truth is, I’d give up all that
abandon for a chance to be
the object of devotion for
someone I have limerence for.
Maybe this has something to do
with how at 7 I still idolized
my mother, even though I knew
she wouldn’t stop hurting me
and would probably kill me
eventually, and rather than
move on completely
from that trauma bond,
I’ve just sublimated it
into other relationships,
many of them healthier options
than others now, thankfully,
and one of them is poetry.
How can I love someone
who doesn’t prioritize me
and only gives me scraps of
attention when they want
something or need to feel safe?
Well, I think I answered that one
up there, earlier in the poem,
when I referred to trauma bonding.
I will say though, I’ve always felt
like an addict whenever I start
having feelings for someone,
and this degree of dependence
reminds me of my father
and his attachment to alcohol
and young women
to make himself feel more
uninhibited and alive,
a parallel that often drives me to,
unlike my father, live
like a painfully mindful ascetic
before the promise of pleasure.
Maybe that’s why the mystical path,
which encourages profound
and direct intimacy with whatever
version of the divine you are
devoted to, has always been
the safest water for me
to try swimming through, and
why, unlike my father,
and other father’s sons who think
it’s attractive and strong
to get wasted and drool
on themselves with repressed self-
infatuation, I feel most
like I’m being loved by somebody
when I allow myself to consider
it is possible to religiously love
being left alone.