Love is a Bullshit Artist

The romantic poets are all bullshit artists, They claim their broken hearts Are now colourful mosaics, The pieces of their shattered hearts Now held together in intricate fashion With the glue of their newfound ‘better’ selves.

What fucking bullshit.

LOVE IS A BULLSHIT ARTIST BY JAIME COLLEY

A heart is just an organ - it pumps blood. It works day in and day out, 24 hours a day. It’s rhythmic, mostly reliable, it never changes, only ages. You cannot tell me your love is centred in the heart. You’re bullshitting yourself if you tell me That your love was always reliable, that it worked 24/7, that it never changed. Hearts are the nurses on their fifth night shift, deciding whether red bull and coffee together will cause a heart attack, but then drinking it anyway. Hearts are the teenagers who, even after Karen asked for the size eight shoe for the fifth time even after being told it’s unavailable, still go out the back and check. Hearts are the protesters, who suck on throat lozenges just so they can demand their rights a little louder, where holding their signs is only arm day, and boy are they ripped. Hearts get shit done, love does not. Love is cuddles on the couch, re-watching Twilight when you’re sick, accepting that at times we can be both team Edward and team Jacob. Love does not demand action; love does not demand at all. It whines.

Love is a whiny bitch. It whines for touch, for back tickles, for fingers in hair, for another cup of coffee. It doesn’t take, it doesn’t even give, it only wants. Wants to do better, wants to protect, wants to surprise, wants to smile

I probably sound like I’m hating on love. I probably sound like I got my heart broken. I probably sound like I’m not over it. I am.

You may think. “but you wrote a poem about love and it’s bullshit.” Yeah, I did. But not because I am ‘not over it’

But because someone has got to call love out on its bullshit.

Love is not in the heart.

Love is in the fingers. The way it stretches in the sun, The way it clamps onto another, The way it can reach and pull, tug and twist. Fingers can crack, fingers can punch, fingers can shake. My finger can trace the outline of his shoulder blade, it can press into the bread and knead it into soft perfection, it can tie balloons and balance butterflies and grip his hand. Fingers can want the way a heart cannot afford to.

Here is how I know that I am over it:

Because I can stretch my fingers out, get ready to catch all that I deserve, And not feel guilty.

I would be bullshitting you, If I said I do not think of him anymore. I do.

I remember the way his hair curled, and the deep oak brown of his eyes. But I remember those things the same way you remember the dream as you wake up, You recognise it for its brilliance, for its subconscious extravagance, But then, You’re glad that you woke up.