A Girl Called Spite
i dreamt myself all see-through, &thumb-tacked to magazine pages. you found me much more familiar,
worth it. you prefer your women to be like picture books, &tell me that my pallor facilitates words too easily, that it looks cluttered &dirty. i made no excuses. i was too busy being paper, which is sort of like everything i ever do in the first place.
But You Can’t Point the Way to Your Heart
i have stopped expecting your love to be like my love. your love is limp from creases and folds so readily into your back pocket. you don't mind the fingerprints. my love is the birthmark behind my right knee. every summer it finds a way to change shape in the sun. when a stranger professes love to the color of my hair, i think you don't do the same because you have gotten so used to me. i've somehow taken on the shade of these walls and blended with the drapery. it's not so easy to notice me anymore. when a friend says they love the way my bones sit, i think you don't say the same because you don't want to give me yourself all at once. every few months i'll receive a different piece of you in the mail. one day i'll assemble you together & climb you like a jungle gym. they'll look up & scream at me because you're not sturdy enough & at that height, i'm sure to fracture something. i bleed volumes into the love notes i leave for you, &i finally see that you don't return them because you've been breaking up with me since the moment we met. which is so funny, really, because i'm not even depressed anymore.
How I Brushed Up On Playing Dead
a long time ago i hurt someone very badly, &in turn, he cursed everything in me, everything under me. i decided that writing him to say every bad thing he ever wished came true, very true, would only be digging my hole that much deeper. like when i bury myself in bath water, &dead-weight the back of my skull past that thin film of bar soap & conditioner. i fall asleep with the water level just below the tops of my ears so that everything is muffled & vague, making me that much further away from wherever you happen to be, &that much more dependent on sedatives to forget what hurts in the first place. kidneys, chest, distance. i thought maybe if you could see me playing dead in dirty water for an hour instead of shaving my legs like i should (but really shouldnt) be, you would want to scoop me up & wrap me in some beach towel i stole from you when you lived here, &tell me how you want me to quit smoking because you know i cant breathe well, not because you hate the way it smells. because i fucking hate the smell, too. &i quit expecting you to notice that a long time ago, just like i quit expecting you to notice that ive been deteriorating.
Making Jazz Swing in Seventeen Syllables Ain’t No Square Poet’s Job
i knew a girl who thought she was holy shit because she wasn't afraid to write the word "pussy". and she thought P-U-S-S-Y was her literary liberation and never realized that to really write pussy, you have to really know pussy, and she thought that was gross. pussy, that is. and it's not even that i like the word pussy, but i know how words lose their meaning, and you can write pussy so much that it finally starts to fold into itself and vowels are lost and swallowed and crushed. and pussy, as a thought, as a sound, becomes furniture. or a retirement plan, or something. like how i wrote about sad for so long that my cells didn't recognize it anymore and my veins started to reject it. and i'd come home to drink by myself and dismember your intentions with verbage and imagery and notebook paper until one night you decided to love me. and you were in michigan and i was organizing my bookshelves and i could feel you change. i could feel the lake and the time zone and your front teeth hitting mine. you'll get preoccupied with the thought of me, and when i drive back home to you, you'll breathe in my sex and i'll cover my face with my hands and you'll grin with your eyes closed, and it can't ever lose meaning because we don't need words for it.
Because Now We Say Goodnight
So I've given you up to a city that used to be mine. When I got home, I climbed into a box that said bedding and tried to retrace my steps one by one, because maybe if I could just pinpoint where I lost you, I could go back and get you. I closed my eyes and imagined myself being shipped off to my new home, where my face will change shape and my hair will grow and you won't recognize me anymore. My neck was pressed up against my knees and I couldn't breathe, just like the past four months. The next time you see me it will be on paper and maybe you'll hold it up to the light and see through me to remember what you were like then. This morning I woke up and said, I've lost you to a city that used to be ours. The pillow didn't respond, but you never did either, and so I told Saint Anthony to just let this one go.
The Fourteen-Hour Gap
I receive you in small increments between the hours of nine AM to four PM. The sun sinks and then so do I, burrowed inside my thoughts where I try to conjure moving images of you against the spongy backdrop of my brain. If only you knew how much heavier the evenings are to owls like me, mentally cutting your likeness out of memory and fabrication and gluing you to posterboard in different positions and expressions. The average population is sweating dreams onto memory foam and down feathers but I’m wrapped in bone-dry bed sheets remembering the things you do while my eyes roll back into my head, epileptic in this aching for you. There’s an ocean in my belly that's rising past my throat and I just talk in water now, choking on hazy vowels-sounds, a possible explanation for my inability to tell you how I really feel. One day this ocean will slowly exhaust itself of liquid, and the remnants of salt will turn my insides into rocks. Rocks that are, by their nature alone, scientifically incapable of grieving your absence.
The Heart Attacks I’m Convinced I Have
You aren't getting any sleep and I'm drowning in it, by way of sedatives and escaping. Last night you blew all your money on porcelain figurines just so that you couldn't afford any cigarettes and I smoked my lungs bloody
and we can't speak for ten god damned minutes without throwing our hands up and leaving. Some healthy fucking decision you made. Jenny Lewis seems to know every time my heart breaks and pens a whole new record for me to bleed to, and I need her to remind me that I'm stronger than this when I'm laying face up on the floor trying to burn you out of my temporal lobe. You will wake up in a few months with a belly full of ulcers and I will wake up in a few months and you won't be the first thing I think about.
November, Six Days Long
can you feel me draining out of you every night as you settle into bed with her? you say you regret it but i've broken that down into soft and hard sounds, a series of letters without related meaning. because you're still there, smelling like her and tasting like her and forgetting all those important details about me until i'm just particles. i'm falling out of you, michael, i'm the dead skin cells in your sheets, and she rolls around on me while you're on top of her, covering what's left of my scent in her sweat, her smug satisfaction and arrogant trust in you smothering m(y patience for this situation)e. it is now six days past your broken promise, one hundred and forty-four hours away from any hope that you'll ever actually mean it. i can feel you falling out of me, michael, closing my eyes so tight that it hurts, counting backwards and begging my subconscious to just forget about you. i forgot your name in the grocery store when we were still new, and maybe if i kill all those since-blossomed and fertilized brain cells, all those buzzing and vibrating neurons, maybe then i can go back to that night when you were just some boy in a grocery store in winter with a generic name that's not significant enough to remember. tonight i will sleep a pill-induced six hours, tossing and kicking until the sheets are in knots. tomorrow i will give up on you.
I Hope It Bleeds All Day Long
in my dream, my newly repressed gag reflex failed to impress you as you slid your arm down my throat, pulling out sentences and paragraphs of how i felt after you broke me. you peeled my punctuation like peanut shells, tossing pause and inflection into a pile at my feet. all those words i would trace on your back to help you fall asleep heaved upward from my belly and into your hand, all the ones you could never guess because they were too long, and in cursive it said "please don't stop loving me, please don't stop loving me". your shoulder blades are books and my words are all over you, and now she reads them as she falls asleep with her face fixed on your back in the bed you both share. all of my love letters and secrets reflect onto her and she soaks in all that we had, all of our kisses on the train and early mornings in the snow, our songs about the dogs and that night i burned all those cupcakes. that was the night i knew i would love you, and now that she's swallowed it up, i wonder if you can feel my memory when you're inside of her, fucking her with your eyes closed and thinking of me.
i know a woman who sees colors when she has orgasms and my love's eyes were made without the ability to recognize red and green. he cannot see my hair or eyes, but he feels them and understands them.
i blow fallen eyelashes off his cheekbones and wish for those colors to come to him in his dreams while i am sleeping beside him.
one day he will wake up and grin at me and i will know what he saw, and we will not speak of it further, because it is delicate and sacred
like favorite songs and
names of future children.
Down Goes Boom
Be prepared to never mention the fact that you love him ferociously, almost absurdly, hilariously; with a love that pops and bubbles and melts plastic and fights crime. A love that can sharpen knives, speak to animals, and lift objects up to 100 pounds from any surface and rotate it one hundred and eighty degrees around. A love that is maybe probably definitely a poltergeist, stacking five chairs on top of each other, sucking children into television sets. Be prepared to leave that part out.
Instead you will pet him and bite his lip and hide your face in his chest, in his arms. You will tell him a joke and he will laugh and you will be sated. You will forget where you are like waking up still drunk at a friend’s house, wondering how you got here and if you are on a boat because oh god the walls are moving and the ceiling fan is closing in on you, but the bed, the bed is the only sure thing and you can just hold onto it and wake up later. You will let him be the bed, because you’re probably drunk anyway.
Don’t drink so much that you tell him how you think the idea of one fucked-up-person trying to “save” another fucked-up-person is NOT total bullshit, because he overlooked the part where compassion and empathy swarm into that empty cannon-ball-hole in your chest and all of a sudden your ability to give a shit about another human being completely changes and you feel new things and believe new things, you are stronger, more efficient, you see colors only birds can. Just because another person understands your pain does not mean they can or will or want to make it better, make YOU better, you know that, it’s just that they fucking get it when nobody else does.
Like strangers who experience traumatic events together, you could be pulled out of a shark’s mouth at the knees & look up expecting to see that the arm dragging you to shore was his. You imagine that you’re both escaping from the same burning building, both outwitting and overcoming the evil villain taking you hostage, assembling your flotation devices and oxygen masks seconds before all the other passengers and being the only survivors. Only he did all of those things, in the same order, five years earlier than you did, and you never met each other until after. You were mistaken; he was not there with you. Your pain is your own.
Just tell him that he is handsome, smile at him when you can, observe enough to build a memory on. Stuff everything you wanted to say back into yourself like you do to your suitcase when you leave and when you’re finally alone again, catch your reflection in the cabin window. Tell yourself that crashing into the ocean alone doesn’t mean it’s not a plane crash. It’s still a plane crash, and it’s all yours.
Or Else Mutates & Becomes Cancerous
god damn, the art of the mixtape is still alive. and i can listen to benny again without hard feelings. i can listen to benny and love him and understand who he is and how he will never get all my jokes because we were not meant to be. and i continue to send songs and tell jokes and someone will fall in love with me for that. i love you and i have no idea who you are. i love you and i cannot wait to tell you. i love you and i cannot wait to meet you! i love your ex girlfriends who are prettier than me, and i will maybe draw them a picture and hug them upon first encounters and make them laugh and they will love me too. i will not be afraid to sing songs to you and i will stop trying to hide myself with my little hands when i'm naked because i don't need to hide, i am tired of hiding and you will tell me to please put down my hands just like lou reed and maybe you are lou reed and maybe lou reed will be on your mixtape for me, because god damn, the art is still alive and we both believe, we both know and we don't even need to say it. we will disagree for the first time and not even blink; we will laugh and embrace and forget why agreeing even mattered to us five years ago, ten years ago, yesterday. we will agree on most things and not even realize the significance because we are entirely too preoccupied. we will sing songs together, we will sing songs alone and think of each other while doing so. our hips will never be attached and we will spend days apart and those days will never mean "i don't love you anymore" because they are just days and we both exist and we will not stop existing, maybe ever. my grey-cloud-friends will tell me that you will destroy me and i will be lovingly defiant, hilariously careless, and even if you do, it will only expand the spectrum by which my heart experiences greater pleasure and i will never hate you for it, i will always love you, and we will never stop existing. from this day forward i will never be completely lonely because you are out there, maybe even now, maybe you will dream me up and predict me too, and when you are there i will remember the days i waited for you and fall in love with each, hour by hour, because they brought me to you. all the times i thought i was lonely i was wrong. how funny is that?
& Ben Said
I spent all my life feeling these big feelings without turning them into words & sometimes I’d see them perfectly explained by a male writer or musician or artist & I’d think, “this can’t be right, this can’t be all there is, he could never fully understand, why can’t I find as many women who feel the way I do & put it into words?”, but then I wonder if maybe all these women like me, before me, at the exact same time as me, were just sitting there, completely dwarfed by both their own feelings & the Importance of Men’s Feelings over theirs, & maybe what changes that is that I start using my own words & putting them out there, cupping my hands & releasing them in a field, in the middle of the street, in a classroom, in a boardroom, maybe I start relating to myself enough to break the cycle, maybe a woman just like me will see it & then find her voice too, maybe we all just find our own words & keep talking until it finally comes out right, until our own steady hum is louder than all of the male voices shouting over each other at once. Maybe you stop needing his songs once you become your own song.
Anatomy of a House Fire
I’m that burning building somewhere downtown that you drive around & look for because you have time. When you finally find me, you can’t look away, but you know you can never come in. Take a picture & leave, watch my smoke change colors from the car, go back to your apartment where you can hear me collapse from a safe distance. A month later you’ll take a detour to see the debris. You can’t shake the idea that you left something there, even though you know it’s impossible. You never got close enough to lose anything to the flames, but your body still remembers that heat, from when you stood there watching me burn. When they build a new restaurant on top of me, you’ll bring a date there & you won’t tell her about the fire. She’ll be lovely & patient & will politely laugh at your jokes that aren’t funny, & when you kiss her at the end of the night, you’ll taste nothing but ash.
Your Voice is a Weapon
EMDR (or Eye movement desensitization and reprocessing) is a type of psychotherapy often used to treat PTSD. A lot of veterans and sexual assault survivors partake in this kind of therapy for “severe trauma that remains unresolved”. It helps you reprocess the disturbing imagery associated with your trauma. I’ve been doing EMDR on and off since January to help me work through my past of more than one sexual assault, the most recent being particularly violent and terrifying.
I walked into my therapist’s office already prepared to start EMDR, but told her we needed to talk beforehand because more capital T things had happened. “Things” - I give it a name that can be discarded. Things. Things that can be thrown away. Things that I can use to prop the hood of my car up and then throw in a fucking ditch. Things that I can use as both a projectile and blunt object when I need to protect myself from more capital T Things.
That week, a customer at work physically threatened me because another person who was not me told him something incorrect. The following day, I was told this attack was my fault and a “customer service issue”, instead of it being, you know, “an attack”. Then, a few days later, a complete stranger verbally assaulted me at a gas station while I was pumping gas. When I refused to take this strange man’s unwarranted bullshit, he charged me, spit on my face, spit in my girlfriend’s face, and then put a lit cigarette out on my body. Several people saw & did nothing. I saw the look on his face as his fist was raised above my head, the moment when he decided he would not actually hit me. It was not the first time I had seen this look, and it will not be the last.
My therapist put her head in her hands. She didn’t talk for a minute. I didn’t either, but I laughed. What else can I do? I laughed. “I was so ready to be hit”, I said. “I’ve been ready to be hit for a long time.” One thing that we do in EMDR is bring an image to mind of the thing that’s disturbing. I didn’t have an image of that man at the gas station. I didn’t have an image of the man at work. I didn’t have an image of my rapist, of the police who refused to collect his semen as evidence, who looked me right in the eye and told me, “we won’t find him, we never do. You’re just a statistic”. I had an image of all of them. A big, black, sticky, ball of them, like they had all fallen down a hill and into a vat of tar, and now they were all stuck together - but they could move, they could reach, and they were coming right at me.
“It’s different this time”, I said. “I’ve never felt fear like this”. My therapist asks me to think of a word or phrase describing how this image makes me feel. "I’m afraid and I’m going to die”. I’m supposed to close my eyes and hold the disturbing image in my head while I repeat, in my head, the words about how it makes me feel. While I do this, she taps on the tops of my left and right hand one after another for a short amount of time but it never feels short. We do sessions of this, I stop, take a deep breath, talk about it if I need to, then continue. In my head I’m repeating “I’m afraid and I’m going to die”.
Each session changes slightly. I get stronger, but I’m still scared. The scared part of me is a psychotic dog on the end of a leash. I can’t control it. It’s a toddler flailing uncontrollably. I can’t keep it still. I keep thinking, “what if I let go?” I’m afraid and I’m going to die. I’m afraid and I’m going to die. I’m afraid and I’m going to die and I’m fucking furious. I’m afraid and I’m going to die and I’m fucking furious and I’m stronger than you think I am. I’m afraid and I’m going to die and this is not my voice.
Wait, what? We stop. “It’s not my voice”, I say. “It’s not just my voice”. She looks at me and she knows. “It’s not”, she says. “You probably even know some of them. It’s all of us. It’s not just you”.
How many other women have felt this way? How many other women have repeated this in their heads, under the fist of a stranger, of a partner, of a monster, or just walking down a dark street alone, how many women have been there, never saying it aloud, repeating it like a spell, like a prayer, like a plea? How many of us carry fear in our purses, carry it with both hands as we struggle to open our car doors. How many of us are so desensitized to the targets on our backs that fear is just daily minutiae, a wallet in our back pockets creating a noticeable outline that molds to the denim & never goes away? How many women?
“The fear, the dog on the end of the leash, what if it’s a voice? What if it just needs to be heard? What if I let it go?” So I said it out loud. I let it go. “I’m afraid and I’m going to die” and I laughed. I laughed. “I’m so fucking pissed off. I’m afraid and I’m fucking sick of it. I want to be done. I want to be fucking DONE”.
The adrenaline had been pumping long enough to make me feel strong. Physically, I felt like I could lift a car over my head. I felt like I could push his body off of mine. I felt like I could break every finger he had wrapped around my neck, like opening latches on a door, to look out, and walk through. I felt loud, like I could be heard, because there wasn’t a hand the size of my head wrapped around my neck anymore. I wanted to be heard. I wanted them to be heard, because it wasn’t just my voice. I want them to feel strong like I did. I want them to break every fucking finger that’s wrapped around their necks, walk through the door, and fucking SHOUT.
I could write this on paper and know that it exists and put it in a drawer or sleep with it under my pillow like a gun, because it is a gun, because it IS dangerous, because men who don’t want to hear it treat it like a weapon. Telling your story cuts to the bone. When you name your pain it becomes a missile that lights 5 signal flares around the person who hurt you. If they try to keep you quiet, tell them, "You don't own your mistreatment of me. It is my story to tell". Every word of your story is a piece of armor. Your voice is a weapon. Arm yourself.
This is My Rapist. There Are Many Like it, But This One is Mine.
Someone called you my rapist. Mine, like there's a room that you occupy in my home, like I could forget you at the bar when I close my tab - like I'm capable of forgetting you at all, even when I'm drunk. It took three years, but I don't duck for cover at men's voices like they're machine guns anymore. I have been stitched up & sanitized, & I can talk now. But you're still MY rapist, still mine, still a black cloud, still connected. You're the claw marks they'll find on my insides when they open me up to confirm cause of death.
The Aftermath that is Also the Backstory
April - September 2016
Ok but imagine not being touched in 3 years except for 2 instances of violence. That the last time someone put their hand on you, their hand was a balled up fist, that the other was wrapped around your throat, lifting you off of your feet & making the drywall sprinkle down in a fine white powder. When you cleaned it up with a broom the next day you thought, “it’s been so long since it snowed in Texas”. You didn’t even think about his fist.
Imagine taking 2 years to realize that you’ve been alone this whole time, so you can actually sleep in the middle of your bed now, that the person who took the other side of your bed has been gone, the person you once couldn’t sleep without, the person who raised his hand to you, who made you bleed, & with that blood, erased all memory of 18,000 tender touches with the 40 or so violent ones. Imagine not being able to recall what skin feels like on your skin unless it’s breaking blood vessels.
Ok but Imagine those orphan infants who literally die without human touch & wonder why you haven’t. Imagine feeling something with your body - I can’t. I place my hand on my chest & feel absolutely nothing. I imagine paying someone to hold me while I cry. I imagine paying someone to hold my face in their hands. I imagine paying someone to tell me that I will be okay.
Imagine being trapped inside of a body that is incapable of compelling human touch without violence.
Ok but Imagine wading through a crowd, wishing you could disappear, heart racing, inexplicably anticipating violence because that’s just what muscle memory conjures up in response to tall men, Then accidentally meeting eyes with some kind of Fuckin Bradley fresh out of grad school who wrinkles up his nose at the sight of your body, daring to exist in a sea of thin young professionals, trying to disappear, just trying to get by, so offensive for being a size 12. If I can’t feel anything when I touch myself, am I even still alive? I know for a fact that I have been touched with tenderness but my body only remembers the bruises. I lay my hand on my chest & feel nothing. I fall down the stairs & in a ball at the bottom, I think, “God, it feels good to be touched again”.
Imagine having nightmares where you run into old friends.
See, it’s not the old friends that I’m scared of. Seeing their faces fills me up with warmth like feeling whiskey settle in your belly, like being covered up by a blanket after falling asleep on a couch in a city that isn’t yours. What scares me is that they look at my face & instead of recognizing me, they only see The Change.
Imagine that you’re stuck in your head peering out, forced to watch the look on people’s faces when they see all the bad things that have happened to you.
I’m scared that I’m just a ghost, that I’m a long-dead bride in an old photograph, that I just look like someone they used to know, that I’m familiar but not me. I’m scared that I might have to explain all that’s changed to prove that it’s really me, to explain I’m different because of the bad things, but I’m still in here, even if they can’t see it, even if I can’t see it. I worry that as I stand in front of someone who knew me before, that his bruises will slowly appear on my face like they once had, that they will bloom & unfold like a time-lapse video of a rose bud opening or a storm rolling in, as I watch someone I actually give a shit about recoil away from me like it’s contagious. I’m scared that they will know just by looking at me that I never called the police because I was too scared.
Ok but Imagine being scared that if you hug someone too closely, that they can overhear your thoughts like a whisper through the dim screen of a confessional booth saying, “sometimes I wonder if my rapist ever misses me”.
Atheists Praying for Closure
In my dreams, I'm apologizing to you under water. Yes, actually under water, in my childhood pool where I used to make potions out of leaves & hold my breath just a little too long during tea parties. I can hear the roar of the water & feel the pressure in my ears, eyes burning & red.
All of a sudden I'm standing in the middle of the hallway at Chicago Lakeshore Hospital in a scratchy gown & paper slippers & water is pouring out of my mouth like a tsunami.
Sometimes I cry really hard because I'm not religious. I know it hurts my mother, but I can't reconcile my pain with something bigger than myself, or the culture of othering & intolerance. I remember praying, really praying, twice in the past 15 years. Once in 2004 next a man who broke me, who eventually became Muslim, & we went to church together to make his mom happy. But I prayed, in my head, I just said, "please". Please.
The second time I prayed was in my hospital room in Chicago. My roommate had finally left, the one who was there because she kept trying to steal babies from hospitals. Sometimes she would look at me & cackle "CODE PINK! I'M A CODE PINK!" & then make police siren noises.
She finally left & I waited 5 minutes. Heard no mouth sirens, no cackling. I knelt like someone was watching me from behind, instructing me, like I was doing it wrong. I was doing it wrong. Again, all I could say was, "please". Please.
I feel like maybe every time I've said I'm sorry it was a prayer. As I write this on my phone, it won't even recognize the word prayer. I have to type it in letter by letter. That is how absent of faith my life has become.
I wish I believed in something bigger than my pain, but I've never experienced it. I've never seen anything strong enough to carry the weight I carry. Why didn't you know that it wasn't your weight to carry? I've always carried this alone. It wasn't your burden, & things would be different if you just knew. Please. I'm sorry. Please.
I wonder if silence is a prayer. I learn the history of the saints to feel closer to my mother. This week I visited the oldest surviving building this side of the Mississippi. The cathedral filled me with a soul-deep quiet & I felt so small. I walked along each saint statue trying to remember who they were until I came upon my mother's namesake, Saint Anne, mother of the Blessed Mother. There was a kneeling bench before her.
I clasped my hands & knelt, thinking of my mom, of my illness & how much it hurts her. I said please. I said I'm sorry. No one heard me, but maybe I was the one who needed to hear it. Maybe that made it a prayer. I thought about everyone else who should have heard it, like you.
When I dream, I see your face close to mine & you are disgusted by the water pouring out of my mouth & I'm just trying to tell you I'm sorry. I'm just trying to tell you, please, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I was broken before you were even born. I'm sorry that every year of my life broke me more. I'm sorry that you only got the shards. Everyone knows not to pick up shards with your bare hands. You did. I'm sorry.
Then there were the days you watched me
Moving back into my cave where the wheels turn
Same wheels that drove you off
I should have told you
Before talking in terms of forever
Any given day wears me down
Works me sour
That there are nights when the sky is so clear
I stand obnoxious underneath it
Begging for stars to shoot me
Just so I can feel at home
- Buddy Wakefield
In my dreams there is a heat seeking helicopter hovering above my home. All you can see is a single red shape in the fetal position. It is the only way for a person to see me. I am otherwise invisible. Alone, curled up, immobile, invisible.
Sometimes, I dream you are next to me in bed & your blanket is just a huge red flag. There is considerable space between us, & I'm wearing a blindfold I can't take off. I'm sorry I wasn't ready. I'm sorry I can't see. I'm sorry that I'm one million shards of shattered glass that you cut yourself on repeatedly. I'm sorry that I don't remember how to feel human. I'm sorry I'm like this & that I forgot how to love. But please. Is that a prayer? I don't know what it means exactly, but it is pouring out of my mouth like water. Please. I'm sorry.