A Love Like Home

I cannot handle loving

another person who doesn’t

get that loving me means offering

me another place to call

home, a place where my soul

doesn’t feel the need to unravel

& leave a trail to a place where

I am no longer me. I will not seek

shelter in any more abandoned spaces

that have been left empty; I have finally

learned how to love me & this loving

can’t be undone. & if that means

I’m one of the black women who

unofficial surveys and anecdotes claim

have given up on love, then that’s okay

with me. I will not force my being

or my acceptance into a place not meant

for me just so I can pass for

one of those girls in love – passing is a form

of self-degradation—you know the ones whose

smiles belie the sound of the tortured rattle knocking

in their souls, that tell-tell sign that something is

wrong. But you learn to ignore it because it’s

better to suffer for love, to break down for love,

to slip into the malignant shadows of

an ill-formed love than to be at peace

alone. Loving me feels like home & I won’t

abandon that love for anyone. Ever. Again.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind