I am an inconvenient woman. I’d be more useful as a pencil sharpener or an adding machine. I do not love you the way I love Mother Jones or the surf coming in or my pussycats or a good piece of steak. I love the sun prickly on the black stubble of your cheek. I love you wandering floppy making scarecrows of despair. I love you when you are discussing changes in the class structure and I’m not supposed to, and it crowds my eyes and it jams my ears and burns in the tips of my fingers.
I am an inconvenient woman. You might trade me in on a sheepdog or a llama. You might trade me in for a yak. They are faithful and demand only straw. They make good overcoats. They never call you up on the telephone.
I love you with my arms and my legs and my brains and my cunt and my unseemly history. I want to tell you about when I was ten and it thundered. I want you to kiss the crosshatched remains of my burn. I want to read you poems about drowning myself laid like eggs without shells at fifteen under Shelly’s wings. I want you to read my old loverletters.
I want you to want me as directly and simply and variously as a cup of hot coffee. To want to, to have to, to miss what can’t have room to happen. I carry my love for you around with me like teeth and I am starving.
“Sometimes, I feel like I can’t work hard enough; and I’m in the studio for hours, days at a time, and I just… I just wanna be great for you, because I never wanna let you down because you never let me down. And I swear, you know, people say, “Oh, it must suck to be you sometimes because you can’t go anywhere” and I say, “No, no no no. The worst part about being me is that sometimes I just feel like I can’t give you everything I wanna give you. Sometimes I just wish I could fix everything that’s wrong with you, or makes you feel like something’s wrong with you. Whatever makes you feel broken, I just wish I could fix it. Because I was so broken.. and you fixed me.”—