There are many kinds of love, and I have lived some of them.
—Katherine Gallagher, Distances
You’re too restrictive,
he shouts at you,
and the fist of his voice
connects with your most tender parts.
There was a time
when loving him looked
like holding him, letting
the small question of his body
soften into yours. There
was a time when loving him
looked like kissing a knee
or playing Monopoly
a third time or singing
to him in the dark. How
easy it was to love then.
Now, love is a war
with no winners,
ammo without a gun,
a wall you wish you could
tear down. That’s right,
you say. I’m restrictive.
That’s my job.
He stomps away
and slams his bedroom door,
leaving you standing
alone with your horrible,
fierce love.