You and I, No Valentine


I come to February 14 this year with the hard lessons of winter: that mismatched marriages, lack of communication, and anger have marked our younger selves as much as love and devotion, and that we are still living the consequences of this volatile mixture; that those we invest time and feelings in do not get in touch until they want something from us; that I am only just learning to miss and need without raging on the inside; that love between women is not linear, we push it to many deaths and will it to many stunted rebirths; that what I want this year is not heart-shaped red cushions nor a romantic dinner, but a month off to write in solitude, in a cottage surrounded by a beautiful view; but who can afford that, or take time off of work? and most of the natural idyllic spaces have either been damaged by kassarat, buildings and trash, or have been bought and walled off for rich people’s isolated comfort.  

I come to February 14 this year carrying these stories of us; but in the eyes of Valentine, there is no us because there is no you; in Valentine’s mind, there is barely a me because there is no you. And so this year, all I want for Valentine is to fuck with its mind.





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