Please Don't Go Before I Get Better

by Madisen Kuhn

  his wife is making dinner in the kitchen while he

  daydreams about my lips

  another woman is thinking of me during a first date

  with someone else

  but i don’t really care about them

  only late at night, after independent films

  highlighted forbidden infatuation

  but it’s not real,

  not something i really want

  in the end

  i am repulsed,

  repulsive

  to those who believe that love isn’t real

  love is real, it’s just not what we want it to be. i don’t know if this idealized version of pure love exists. the only people i’ve ever loved selflessly are my siblings. i would do anything for them, not for any other reason except that they are special to me, and i want them to feel whole and happy—i want to give them everything i wish i’d had. i want to see them flourish. i want them to know that they are loved. my love for them is not based on how they treat me. they are children. their imperfections are expected. but romantic love is different. we’re all fucked-up human beings with our own flaws and baggage, but we were taught by movies and books and songs that romantic love is the epitome of contentment . . . and it just isn’t. not to me. love is real, but it isn’t perfect. it’s messy. and raw. and exhausting. relationships are hard. being fully vulnerable with someone who could leave at any moment takes a lot of courage. your siblings will never “leave” you. even as you grow up and spread out, they’re just a phone call away. your parents will always be there (or at least that’s supposed to be the agreement—but parents are fucked-up humans too). loving someone and accepting them for who they are, but still wanting to see them grow, takes a whole lot of compassion and patience. choosing someone again and again requires so much loyalty and commitment. romantic love seems to be the most intense form of intimacy. your partner affects you in ways that your platonic best friend or sister doesn’t. i don’t know. it’s all so complicated. i think the moment we stop expecting romantic love to be something it’s not is the moment it all feels okay. embrace the mess. embrace the chaos of being in love. you will learn that your love story is complex, or maybe it feels very simple. it hurts sometimes, it’s fucking beautiful, and it’s hard, and it’s magic, and it’s yours. it’s all yours.

  los angeles

  i am melting in the living room

  of a house below the hills

  while my boyfriend makes music with his friends,

  i can hear it pulsing through the walls

  as i read on their couch

  bukowski screams that i am unoriginal,

  rumi whispers that i am a part of something more;

  we walk to the diner down the street

  where the waitresses have stick-on gems beneath their

  eyebrows

  and choppy bleach-blond fringe entangled in their

  eyelashes

  and we are sitting at the counter at 10 p.m.

  on top of red vinyl stools

  drinking milkshakes and laughing and

  not caring about anything

  besides one another

  and i am

  arms outstretched through the sunroof

  first day of summer

  dancing in a sea of people to your favorite band

  waking up on a sunday morning with him

  happy

  two months

  i moved to california. i got on a plane at seven in the morning to fly over mountains and waters and fields of orange flowers i may never lie among. i cried in the car on the way there, trembling with fear and disbelief in myself. i looked out the window, thousands and thousands of feet above my safe spaces, and i smiled. i laughed. i marveled at the clouds.

  every day, i get to look at palm trees and look in the mirror to see new freckles that have bloomed on my cheeks. i get to look back at the reflection of a girl who took a chance, a leap of faith, trusted her heart to guide her and believed that the universe would never hurt her without purpose. i look at someone who was afraid, stagnant, dead in a spiritual sense, but chose to see that there was more out there for her.

  i walk everywhere. the sun tans my skin and i breathe in the smell of marijuana and flowers and i smile. i get up in the morning and i wash my face and i do yoga and i meditate. i sit in public places where i feel vulnerable and alone, and i let the panic pass instead of rushing home, and then i stay out for hours, soaking up the buzzing feeling of a holy-shit-i-really-am-getting-better high.

  i am sitting on my couch in my apartment, my best friend (dog) next to me, sipping sleepytime tea while my beautiful boyfriend sleeps in our bed in the other room. i still have fear that growls in my stomach—i am learning not to feed myself to it anymore. i moved to california despite all his friends saying i shouldn’t. and we are happy. and i love him. and i hope you get on a plane sometime soon, too.

  move slowly

  the world looks so different

  smells

  different

  feels

  different

  when you move

  slowly

  watch your feet

  take two steps inside of

  a cement square

  lift up one foot

  and let it fall down like honey

  i saw a hummingbird

  for the first time

  watched the wind blow through the palm trees

  felt it on my face

  smelled the purple flowers

  on the sidewalk

  didn’t think about anything

  at all besides

  here

  and

  now

  and

  slowly,

  slowly,

  slow

  neglect

  i always wanted freckles on my lips

  thought they were pretty

  the way they were sprinkled

  across her mouth

  i wanted to be pretty too

  wanted to look alive

  feel alive

  but i sat inside

  running my tongue across my teeth

  feeling the plaque and bits of spinach

  stuck in between

  and i didn’t floss at night

  i felt dizzy and breathless

  lying on the carpeted floor

  a fridge full of cold water

  on the other side of the wall

  i didn’t move

  i dripped in sweat and bathed in tears

  red sand sitting between my rosy cheeks

  if only i weren’t so thirsty

  shoshana

  i will beg the universe to never let me forget how it feels to be young and with deepened smile lines and darkly freckled shoulders my wrinkled, old, and worn hands grasping yours, i will try to understand

  kindling

  he and i embodied ugliness for a long time. we fought habitually and were venomous and resentful. life is different now. our love is different now. the older we grow together, the more our hearts soften. our stubborn, blind, selfish hearts learn to let go of being right because mending and harmony are more important. i love him more than my stubbornness now. when he pleads with me in frustration, i don’t stare at him with disgust like i used to and think about how i need to escape. i try to understand. i see a man i love who is human too. every day i feel closer to him. i feel proud of him. of both of us. i feel lucky and in love and alive and at peace. i wipe my feet on the welcome mat, leave my muddy shoes by the door, and fall into a person who has become my home.

  to my past muses

  i wonder if you’ll read the poems

  i wrote about you

  and what you’ll think

  if you’ll care

  roll your eyes

  bite your lip

  yawn

  laugh

  cry

  i’ll never fucking know

  that’s probably for the best

  i’m not sure why i care what you t
hink of me

  i think i like knowing that i didn’t

  leave a bad taste in someone’s mouth

  i dream of you licking your lips

  and tasting chamomile

  you probably taste nothing at all

  forgotten

  intimate moments

  of solitude

  do not become memories

  they are fleeting

  rainbows caught in

  midday sunlight

  flowing in and out of

  existence

  i will not remember these moments,

  painting my toenails on the front step

  while my neighbor plays beach house

  loudly through open windows

  how the wind feels

  how the aloneness feels

  pure and new, yet familiar

  how the contentment

  the sureness

  the mindfulness feels

  like salty air sticking to your cheeks

  on an afternoon at the beach

  when you were little and nothing mattered

  except for sand castles and sunscreen

  i won’t remember the time spent with only myself

  my mind will crumble it up and toss it in the wash

  like your favorite pair of socks

  one never to be seen again

  i won’t remember

  unless i write it down

  because desert warmth

  is somehow less significant

  i don’t think it should be

  21

  a cold bath takes the place

  of a space designed for breathing slowly

  her first glass of wine tastes like pretending

  her favorite color is green

  it sits on her lips like desperation, like apprehension

  like maybe all of this tension will go away

  if i try what i’ve seen my mother do a thousand times

  she knows it won’t work

  but it feels okay. okay. okay.

  okay. okay. okay.

  i’m trying, i’m trying.

  growing up

  home is a tiny town and the blue ridge mountains

  scenic trips down backroads with my sister,

  listening to music while the wind makes our hair dance violently

  sitting on my mom’s back porch at sunset

  late-night runs to dollar general

  fifty-cent sodas from the machine outside of the grocery

  store owned by the family of my best friend from the

  sixth grade

  watching my brother’s baseball games at the park

  but home is here, too.

  the equinox

  it feels like waking up

  a dormant daffodil opening to

  greet the warmth with ivory fervor

  but it isn’t spring, it’s the end of summer

  the sun has always been there

  yet i hide inside the warm ground

  amongst the worms and the rot

  and pretend it’s okay

  until i get a glimpse of light

  a gentle and burning ray of reminding

  of what it’s like to be open

  coda

  i’m walking my dog; the littlest one. he has his nose to the ground and his black tail curled upwards. i pass a man on the sidewalk with strong arms and brown hair. i hate his clothes but i love his eyes. he looks at me like a television ad; no interest at all, just a blank stare. when i get to my building, i see you. you’re tall and your hands are in your pockets. i’m not surprised at all. i always knew you were coming.

  “there you are,” i say.

  you look at me with relief shimmering in your eyes. you didn’t know what i’d do. you flew halfway across the world to stand in front of me and watch me walk away.

  “here i am,” you say.

  i walk towards you slowly, like if i move too quickly, you’ll blow away with the wind rustling the palm trees above us. i’ve dropped the leash and fin is running towards the busy street. when i’m close enough to smell the cologne clinging to your wrists, you tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. my heart slows instead of quickens. i feel calm. i feel seen. i feel you.

  we step into my apartment and i’ve cleared my mind of anything else but you. all i can see is your tan skin and dark eyes. you sit down on the chair by the door.

  you hold me like a child while my body convulses and tears dampen your shirt. i feel everything all at once.

  you are here, and i am finally gone.

  my head is swirling

  spinning?

  it’s dizzy and messy and blind

  i knew things had changed when

  i didn’t hear the door crack open

  and see you standing there,

  pillow in hand,

  asking to join me on the couch

  i sit on the sidewalk like a shiny penny

  waiting to be picked up or for my glistening

  to catch the eye of a stranger

  but instead they are chattering and laughing

  and completely silent

  their shoes leaving black scuff marks on my surface

  slowly dulling me into the pavement and

  i realize i am not anything new

  just another piece of loose change

  this is the second night this week

  that you’ve shown up while i sleep

  i dreamt you were crying and i felt that we could love each

  other better than my past love

  because you understood what it was like to feel broken

  to feel loss

  to have endured true tragedy and found yourself

  heaving under the weight of it all and

  you weren’t afraid to let me see you bawl and contort

  you rested your forehead on my shoulder and

  i knew we could love each other

  because we understood

  i’ve spent the day reading and writing and pretending i don’t have anything better to do. it amazes me that my grandmother had such beautiful script and mine is just god-awful. i think even if i practiced it would still be hideous. i’m very good at admiring beautiful things and terrible at embodying them. i think i’m destined to be an onlooker while everyone else blooms and is adored. even if their words don’t mean shit, they look pretty so they’re a revelation. it’s easy to seem wise and deep when you’re regurgitating sayings and thoughts that have been thought and said for centuries. but they are oh so concise and convenient and easily digested. sometimes i find myself wishing i could be so simple, so contrived, just for the approval and esteem. i am so addicted to the idea of being revered. a universal infatuation. i value it over genuineness and reality and substance. why? why do i hope for an unreliable love that is lacking in so many other ways? it will not remind me to brush my teeth or drink water. it will only braid my hair and feed my ego until i am fat with it, and he has found someone new to “love.”

  i crave a lover who will write me poems

  or at least one who will want to read mine.

  i think i’ll move back home and

  make a dozen boys fall in love with me just to prove to

  myself that i am more than he made me feel i was

  i’ve given myself to him for the past three years but i think

  he wouldn’t like me if he really got to know me

  despite sharing a bed for so long

  he doesn’t really know me

  not really

  i am selfish when i am craving attention. affection. i won’t care if you have a girlfriend. i’ll let you send me shirtless photos and pretend that we’re oblivious to the inappropriateness of it all. i will swallow my morals and keep the ugly secret. you aren’t flirting, you aren’t getting high off the idea that i am looking at you in your boxers with tattoos across your chest and molten glass in your smile. you are just saying hello. and i am just saying it back.

  but when i find a place to put
my love, i will fucking die for you. i will hand over all my rations until you are fat and happy, and i am shriveled and happy. i will follow you across the country and i will take care of your dog and i will do your laundry. i will love you even when you yell at me. i will try to kiss you when you turn away. i will write poems and you won’t read them. i will pretend that this is enough. this is enough. this is enough. this is enough. this is enough. this is—

  but, jesus, he looks so good without a shirt on.

  i don’t burn bridges

  i just let them rot

  let the termites eat away at the timber

  forget they’re even there

  until i return to my hometown

  and it feels like a ghost town

  no high school sweethearts to ring for coffee

  no old study buddies to catch up with over gas station

  sandwiches

  no one to curl into with nostalgia

  no rickety planks, no pile of ashes

  just a muddy stream flowing through the green and brown

  overgrowth

  unaware that life exists apart from solitude

  i used to read about how pisces are known for their self-sacrifice. he convinced me that this did not apply to me. but as i sit here on a sidewalk in west hollywood, thinking about how many times i’ve filled my suitcases to follow him around—to philadelphia, to sweaty florida, to hopeless delaware, to north carolina, to loss of self, to here—i realize he was wrong. i sat on trains, buses, planes, and drove miles and miles to give you my heart, even when you weren’t ready to give me yours. i gave up my own dreams to follow yours. you tried to tell me i didn’t have any, so what was the fuss for? but i never dreamed of being this dependent, fearful person, swollen with self-doubt. i never dreamed of having to look to you before making a move. i never dreamed of being twenty-one and ready to give up new york city, incense, and—. i didn’t dream of losing myself. but i did—i lost myself in giving myself and not knowing how to keep enough intact. i know you’ll read this (if you ever actually do) and think i’m remembering you worse than you were. i don’t resent you or even really blame you. i’m just excited to dream again, instead of pretending yours were mine, and that that was enough.