Writers Jam

love comes in different shapes, sizes, and tastes, and sometimes, it’s always just arriving.
it can be addictive and infrequent.
it can make you withdraw or overshare.
there are a few loves that i can now recognize anywhere.

one is in the shape of a hole in my chest,
and it echoes a birthday wish so loud and empty
that it is unanswerable.
it’s a sour candy i keep on my tongue,
until it melts and melts and melts,
until it becomes the only thing i can taste.

another is the one that writes me long emails
and changes my entire life in the course of a few minutes.
it tastes just the right degree of sweetness,
and i gleefully indulge.
i’m learning to channel my love to the same degree
in the hopes of becoming as addictive.

then there is one that tastes like a bad day and anger.
i roll it on my tongue,
chew it over a million times,
and by the time i build up the courage to spit it out,
i’m too late, and it leaves a worse taste in my mouth.
then i rinse and repeat.

but once, there was a love of mine that listened,
maybe out of tolerance,
or the high of feeling special.
then it started to taste bitter,
so i put it behind the bars.
its hands often try reaching out still,
but now i’m too far gone,
now i’m just a witness.

i have even tasted a love that’s wise and delicious,
dressed up as care and pride,
that gives solutions to my future problems.
it’s a love that tastes like how i want it to taste
in any given moment.
it’s a love that has stayed.

i have tasted a love that’s spicy too,
it jabs and heals, and wounds, but sees.
i promise myself that i’ll never turn to it
every time its burn irks my throat,
but i relent and i let go.

and i also know a love that i’m the safest around.
it smells of my favourite place,
in-between the pages of my book
and the sounds of my playlist.
i reside in this love and i become it.
i see it everywhere i go,
i take it with me.
it comes alive in the letters i write,
and the pictures i click but never send.
a love that captures and never forgets.

however, the most distasteful and flavourful love of all
is the love i have for my own being.
i’ve never been normal about it, or about myself.
either i feel the urge to punch the mirror or kiss it.
i have only learned to live by the extremes.
the aim is to cook it so well
that it starts tasting like curiosity and compassion.
numerous flavours are sizzling on the stove now,
it has to become interesting.

i’m still getting used to developing new taste buds
for different flavours of love,
memorising the new ones,
and yearning for the ones i’ve tasted before.

and lastly,
i wonder what kind of taste my love leaves behind.