Look, I’m ace.
This is the first year I know this,
which means it’s the first I know
that I may never have a valentine.
At least none in the traditional sense.

No lover to get me chocolates.
Hubby to bring me flowers as
we’re sitting by the fire.
No homemade card to reclaim
the capitalism of the so-called holiday
all for ourselves.

Yet, what saddens me most,
is that I don’t care at all.

I don’t feel sorry for the nine-year-old me
who just knew that the picture she took
during the class party with her one and only crush
would be in the yearbook forever.
The one she was ecstatic about,
but always felt a little odd
and she could never pin why.

I don’t long for the ability to love
when the selfie he and I took a year ago
popped up on my phone.
The one I always knew was useless to take.

I don’t wish I had somewhere to be last night.
My online community raised
over 2.2 million dollars for charity,
the most we’ve ever done.
I painted for the first time in months,
the first items of pride I’ve ever owned.
A call from a friend that I haven’t seen
since another time,
another place,
another me.

I used to love Greek mythology.
I was a hopeless romantic.
I blasted love songs
and screamed them with all the air
from my lungs.

And I still do.
And I did.
And I always will.

Because I know that
love doesn’t only come
in one shade of red.
Because I always have
loved purple.

One year, it was rectangular boxes with our names.
$2 cards for a pack of hologram puppies or superhero’s.
Writing out each name that was your favorite.

Another year, we are grown buying little shot bottles.
Gigantic stuffed bears and favorite candy to add.
A hope for a kiss for the hard work at the end of the day surprising them.

Yet every year it’s the same.
And I’ve been okay with that,
Coming to terms that I will never have the true Valentine I so desperately deserve...

Not tasting like affliction,
Not looking with reflection,
Needing a new affectation,

Unable to keep either hand
off
that remote control,
surfing from place to place,
Finding varying degrees of
un-
kempt hair,
Channeling, "Chocolate,
My Chocolate,"
The darker the better,
silky smooth
mousse, melts, making
merriments,
for the senses,

These are a few, of some favorite things
yet nothing compared to what
red wine brings to the table,
with nothing on,
as it unveils the light,
as added swirl to glass,
the round of the cup in the palm
of an open hand,
reminds one of...
past...bottles lying about the place,
a few at a time, Listen...

To be true, only hearing about
drugs as recreation, or
******* substances of
abuse, strange mystery to me,
as I am high on life,
so I cannot write about
what I don't know,

On anger, the hurt, on self-loathing, sings
a call from the Halls of the mountain King,
as printed voices tell in clear,
of battle scars,
of toxic people,
influence,

on lives that matter much,
much more than you know, I care for y'all,
but this ends, a tortured
free
verse,
freed,
for now I must feed my addiction,
"Open up, beautiful, here is another dark chocolate wine dipped cherry, no, no,
not from the bowl, but from my naked lips...