Last week, I went on an adventure to a cheesemaker’s milk house, and it was interesting and wonderful. Huge thanks to my friend and the owner Stefanie for letting me come and visit the Valley Milkhouse at the Covered Bridge Farm.
You don’t have to tell me you love me. You don’t have to write it down, or say it as we sigh into each other. You don’t have to scream it to the world, or spell it out in texts.
You don’t have to say I Love You.
I don’t really believe it from the mouths of men. You love me. You LOVE me. You love the way your hands fit between the curve of my waist and my ribs. You love the way my bottom lip is lush and damp. You love the way I can flip over an egg and make it perfectly sunny side over.
You love how confidently I raise a glass of whiskey to my lips, or press my mouth to yours. You love than I laugh loud, and dance with abandon. You love how I blush, or how my freckles align on my arms.
You love these lovely things that encapsulate who I am. But you don’t love me. I love me.
You don’t love the arch & ache in my back, or the veneers on my teeth. You don’t love the hate I feel when I am fearful. You don’t love my tears as they fall down my face. You don’t know how my thighs brush, or how my fingers bite into the flesh of my palm. You don’t love the prickly hair that grows on my legs. You don’t love the crookedness of my eyes, or my ears. You don’t love the hurt I feel, or the desire I have. The greed in me to be a lover and a fighter for someone who loves and fights for me. You don’t love that I have more to say, or that I tell you you’re wrong.
You don’t have to love that I’d rather you claim me, now with your hands and mouth than pretend to be civil. Be wild with me. Mate me. Dig deep for instinct.
reach deep into your gut to gain the slight, raw feeling. I’m not fragile in form, I am enviable, and respectable. I am strong, I know what I want, and especially what I don’t.
So, don’t tell me you love me, because I don’t believe false promises, or even your half truths.