RAMONA WORKSHOPS: PERIOD WITCHES

All My Precise Loves

Writing by Sophie Rose // Illustrations by Lola Dunham

The question becomes and remains and becomes again

How do I tell a man I’m falling in love with him

 

“Hi, welcome, love

Welcome to my love”

 

My love

(This pretty little thing!

It’s the very best

And the very worst

Ultimately the very core

Of me)

Coats my throat

Prickles my nose

Tickles my fingers, sparkles my toes

Paints my ears (pink)

Bubbles through my lips

Shimmies down my legs

It’s newly-born and it’s thrilled and it’s urgently now

Murmuring in my ear

Murmuring velvet and fire

 

When do I get to meet him

Shhh

I’ve heard so much about him

I know

How his deep, dark, dark-blue eyes swallow you up and how you feel a buzzy pride whenever you make him laugh because his laugh is just so nice and how he nestles his forehead into your neck when he’s asleep and how he wears his wistful introspection on his heart-shaped lips, lips that make you feel like you’re home when they touch yours

Yes

I heard all that from you

Yes

I want to meet him, I want to see all the things

I know, I know

So when’s it happening then?

It’s not

What do you mean

I don’t know if he wants to meet you

I don’t think he wants you

 

I’m sorry

 

Quiet, the loudest quiet, and a whisper

I’ll go, then

 

The question becomes and remains and becomes again

How do I tell a man I’m falling in love with him

 

My love

(This pained little thing!

It’s the very worst

And the very best

Ultimately the very core

Of me)

Doesn’t want me to forget

As if I could

It didn’t go

It has nowhere to go

It saturates me with its wet sadness

Fuck off, I hiss

It says nothing

It wraps itself around my stomach

It snakes through my lungs, it bites, leaves gashes

It drips forlornly, obnoxiously, overdramatically off my heart

My love

My poor love

Mourning someone it never got to know

It’s too heavy now to lift

To give away

To all the someones who need it more

Who want it more

Like me, maybe

My love

Saunters through my sleep

Stares me straight in the face as it

Clangs pots and pants

I growl

Why are you mad at me!

Clangs louder

Why aren’t you mad at him!

He’s the one who didn’t want us!

A pause

He’s the one who didn’t want us.

A pause and then a broken shiver

A resigned sway

Keeling back onto its heels to stare up at me

No more clangs

Pity, drifting somewhere in the hurt and anger

You didn’t give him the chance to want us

Because you can’t believe that anyone ever will

 

SLAM

A door inside me shuts

I’m not sure where

 

But what am I to do

When I’ve known from the start that this love

This one

This exact

Slow, feisty, lush, pensive, conceited, gorgeous, flawed

Special

Precise

Love of mine

Was doomed

 

I kept it at bay as long as I could

I tried desperately not to notice it

It’s not that I’m afraid of love

Not as a rule

It’s that I just knew it was misplaced here

I knew from day one that ultimately those deep, dark, dark-blue eyes would only bring me hurt

So yes

The second the love triumphantly broke through the barricades I’d thrown together

(I threw them together hastily, anxiously

I didn’t want it to get through but

Did I?)

The second I felt it enthusiastically introduce itself to every organ in my body; the second my stomach went weak with it

I can only describe that second as

Ethereal

Surreal

Terrible

 

Knowing that something was born specifically to end

The question becomes and remains and becomes again

How do I tell a man I’m falling in love with him

 

This precise love of mine

Knows there’s no use asking anymore

It mingles now

With the other precise loves

Ten years of precise loves

Still living in me

They never left

Well

Some left

They all came back

 

One is New-England-sky-after-a-rainstorm blue

One is loud-crackling-fire-embers red

One is water-drops-on-a-palm-leaf green

Makeup-smudge lavender, light-hitting-snow silver, a soft shade of bumblebee yellow

No two loves are coloured the same

 

They dance back and forth between parts of me

They tease; poke each other hard and run away laughing

They mope alone in dark corners

They jump into my brain and fight over my buttons with impish glee

(Control panel chaos)

They plan road trips through my veins

They host little love BBQs; potluck-style

They yell and yell and yell as though no matter how much they yell I still can’t hear them

They lie down on their bellies in the center of my head, chins resting on hands, feet waving in the air, gazing through my eyes, watching my life

Seeing what I see

 

They are children

They are immortal

They have a (my) lifetime to exist

So they find ways to pass the time

They make friends

They cry

They do what they can to alleviate the ache

The one that comes with all being cooped up in me

Instead of out there with all the precise hims

 

But a precise love can never truly leave me, not for good

It will just change shape as it needs to

And if it gets to leave it will always return

 

Some of these loves

When it was time

I was the one who pulled them back, packaged them nicely up with ribbons and stored them gently in the empty spaces

Some came barreling back in, high speed, panting, gossipy, knocking the air from my chest

Some walked, politely, calmly, rang the doorbell, waited patiently for me to let them in

But most inch back on hands and knees, soaked in grief, crawl weepily into my arms, hungry to be held, hungry to forget

 

What am I supposed to do with you, my lost loves

I’m in that twice-a-day moment between awake and asleep

Cradling them reluctantly in the space around my heart

They’re quiet

But listening

What can I do

How can I help you get home

 

We are home

Right?

 

Right but if you’re already home

Why do all of us feel this alone

 

The question becomes and remains and becomes again

 

What do you do with all the empty and all the full

From all the falling in loves

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Sophie Rose

A girl trying to make her way in this crazy world (currently Toronto). Her heart is split amongst the lovely people who’ve allowed her into their lives. She’s writing a book about them, and this. If you want to be a part of it, email info@ramonamag.com about this piece and they’ll help get you in touch.

 

Lola Dunham

Keep up with Lola’s artwork on Flickr, Instagram, and her website.

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