Choose wisely who you give your heart to. The words sound out in my head but never in my mouth as I watch those closest to me fuck-arse their way through love. But they choose poorly, as they must. because love is unselective like that. And I suppose that’s what’s magical about it. It occurs to me while I sip my tea, that on this subject alone, I have an advantage. Because what I have is worth everything. Happily I’d forgo everything else for just this, if I really had to. And how many people can say that about their husbands?
The fittest man to ever walk the earth, and he’s all mine. My eyes lap him up like a tall glass of coke on a hot day. His hands so careful and precise, he chisels the real me out of the filthy alchemy that I once was. The mess of metal and stone and debris and now what we have here is a ruby. Together we excavated each other, like ruins brought back to life, like fishing nets suddenly mended and full of fish. As though we alone destroyed the falshood of differing genders. Discovered that the dick and the cunt are the same thing, doesn’t matter which witch holds the stick or the bag, the trick is just as good.
I could stretch out the edges of mouth till my face rips apart, scream to the heavens above till sound fills every crevice of this world, beat wildly with my fists against the horrible fate that every living thing must share. Open myself inside out, soul draping along the floor like the spilled yolk of an egg and I love him so violently and delicately and eternally that it’s everything that ever was and is. And there I said it. Call me dramatic, it’s how I feel. And fuck it that my love-lust for him embarrasses some, fuck it that it’s over the top and un-cool, fuck it that it’s not finger-on-the-pulse-londonfields-edgy. Fuck it because it’s real and it’s mine and it’s better than I ever deserved or could ever have hoped for.
So what is he, some sort of fucking god? I know the backlash before the words even leave my mouth and it makes me laugh. Because in this day and age you can’t say you’re gagging for your husband to fuck you without every woman on this earth thinking you’re pathetic. Because at this ripe middle-age housewives are more concerned with the acquisition of things. And penis-man is just the once screwed un-screwing tool that gets them everything they demand. The new daddy to accommodate for the princess brat in a way that a daddy’d never dare. So they con themselves out of genuine romantic proposals by first planting the seed, because we all know he never would have if you didn’t first impregnate his dumb-fuck little head with the idea in the first place. They push and push like all good midwives will tell them, to get the baby up there in the first place. Because those little boy-men would never have been ready otherwise. Let’s face it, if they hadn’t of gone to all those crazy covert secret lengths then they’d be whittling away their womb-fertile-years while some scrotom-scrounger leisurely takes his time, clutching his condoms tightly. I don’t blame or judge them for their manipulative little ways. I admire my sisters because it’s what it takes to get shit done. And woman are the true warriors and I’m not afraid to say those bitches terrify me. Because they could have one over on me as easily and quickly as I conjure fiction-fact anywhere I see it.
I scream-love him tightly like a fucking crazy bitch because I never had to be that way with him. The frankness that we share startles and shocks us and when he got down on one knee, I genuinely had no clue. When he proposed to me, with that in-expensive perfect silver ruby goth ring, I thought myself too much woman to be bound by it. And what a fool I was to not have realised sooner that marriage was more about belonging than possession and that in the space the ring created I’d find the real reason that us human’s have a soul.
I once said that I feared death solely because it was the one place I’d have to go without him. And it’s true. And does that make me less of a feminist. Fuck off does it. It just means that what we have between us is, even after all these years, so precious to me that without it the hands of time aren’t fearful. And I’m terrified of some cruel twist of fate taking him from me. Not because I’m afraid to be alone but because he is the best day of my life, he is the man who made me a mum, he is that guy with the skunk green eyes who I could barely hear on the bus all those years ago.
Be careful who you give your heart to, not because they could crush it, but because they might just not.