The first was a woman
who reminded me of butterscotch,
who called me every night to promise me that I was enough,
to thank me for not dying back in grade school.
They said we love you for who you are.
Then it was a man
who tasted of Sunday mornings and endless piles of poetry
and they said oh, so you’ve changed your mind.
I told them it was more that he would rest his hands upon my waist and say
this is yours, but, god, it means the world to me you share.
So they scream selfish! selfish! selfish!
Choose! choose! choose!
If I do not exist, how can you promise, then, that love is all-inclusive?
I’m confused? I have never once mistaken butterscotch for liquor,
nor Sunday mornings a cure for sadness.
I swing both ways? No, I slam like a bird into glass, come up bloodied, and cry myself to sleep,
but I cannot see why it matters,
when to love is to love is to love is to love
and I love and I love and I love and I love.