Every woman I have ever spoken to of love describes it as a masterpiece,

a finished project,

something that if you work hard enough you can achieve alone.

I never understood this, doesn’t it take two?



When I was young the bed time tales my mother would read described the women as soft, something to be

touched gently

The men, always so brave, fighting against dragons and demons, but could touch porcelain skin without leaving a mark

I never understood this, doesn’t love leave a bruise?



When my mother fell in love with another man

she said he touched her like she was stamped “fragile” in red letters

he talked to her in a way so as never to belittle or blacken her

I never understood this, this was not how my father loved her



So, maybe this is why when I dream of love

I dream of being thrown against the wall, shattered into pieces so small I could lodge in his skin without him knowing

when he tries to touch me like something that may break,

I have already broken,

of words that leave marks so strangers can see that I am taken



Love isn’t a masterpiece, it is a work in progress and my canvas has been repainted 9 times, with only a few lasting more than a night

It is never a finished project, nor a porcelain doll, it is

a work in progress, a barbie missing an arm

It isn’t something perfect,

It is something that if you are lucky, in the end will leave you glued back together