I have a problem with love.
I have a lot of problems with love. I have problems with how little it is used. I have problems when people are afraid to say it. I have problems when we are told it is this thing now buy it. More than anything I have a problem with the fact that I think my problem with love is a problem.
Because I love so many people. I love too many people.
I love my family.
I love my friends.
I love my partner.
I love my ex-girlfriend.
I love the ex-girlfriend before that.
I carry a furnace inside me, and I can’t stop lighting fires.
I love the bus driver who let me on when I had lost my ticket.
I love the homeless girl who asks me for money.
I love the boy in school who was kind of an ass to me sometimes.
I love the person at the bar who talked drunkenly at me for forty minutes, before passing out and I never even learned their name.
I love every person who has ever given me their passion, their fear, their understanding, their perception, their debate or their time.
I love every person who I have seen be kind.
I love every person who has ever shown another person love.
More and more I am finding it hard to not tell people. I want to run up to the women in the supermarket, looking sadly at her phone and tell her she looks fucking beautiful. I want to run up to the child two paces away and tell them I love how they dance. I want to seize the PA system and tell everyone they are precious to me and make everyone in the store stare at me like I’m crazy.
I want to shake the hand of the meth head at the bus station who just tried to con me, badly, and gave up because he said I looked like a nice guy.
I love these people. They are glorious and ugly and wild and every one of them is filled with doubt and self-pity that I want to hold down and drown in a puddle.
I want to tear down and fucking burn every shithole excuse for a magazine that sells fear and panic and the fake-justified laughter of bullies to millions, day by day, because they are hurting the people I love.
I want to kick oily politicians, selling hate and wrath as hope and security, I want to kick them in the smile until their nose crunches on my boot and they break down in snot and tears because they are hurting the people I love.
The planet is howling. I hear it every day. I see it every day. Every time I breathe or read or eat my breakfast I am deafened by the howling of the people I love. They are in agony and I don’t know what to do and I am only one person.
I am bitter, and angry and sarcastic as all hell, but all of that is built on my love.
I carry a bomb inside me, and no one knows it is there.
I am a terrorist in the street, in your house. My love is terrifying because it is savage and alien and gentle and new. It does not obey your social graces and it does not bend to your capitalistic goals.
You are more than this.
You are a human and I love you.