BOXES

I get out of boxes.
I don't like your labels.
You will not tape me; send me off to be received by others;
to be cut open and bleed peanuts.
I'm unwrapped busted bubbles containing hazardous materials.
Unsoluable your thoughts of me are not easy to return to sender.
Anonymous circulars addressed to current resident would have me
prescribe to the doctrine that my interests are as communicable as paper cuts.
Tanged tongues licked with adhesive not enough to glue gums shut and mouths from flapping.
I am the right side up even if my arrow points towards the middle.
I know that your perception of me is too big too small.
Obsessed like size queens I am not to be filled with your pressures.
I am ever expanding to accommodate heavy parcels or to just offer protective coverings.
So whether you choose cardboard or plastic, sturdy or elastic.
Drawn or constructed, locked, or unobstructed.
Checked or bubbled.
Straight or Gay.
I tend to sit Bi myself.
Getting out of whatever box you decide to put me in.

V-Day Part Deux

Let me open by saying that I am no jaded. I love love.
I love love like when my palms get all sweaty hovering over the number 7 on speed dial to call you.
I also know that if I don't tell you today that you should still know it.
If I never get a chance to tell you again that I showed it.
That you felt it.
Understood what it meant for it to be unadulterated. Untainted with ununiquness.
I've loved few. Your greatest loves should never outnumber the fingers on one hand.
I've learned that these people loved me once or twice in some cases.
I knew it when I didn't wake up to cards, candy, flowers.
Whether it was a 5 Star meal or "Hey baby there is some Chinese in the fridge".

I just can't believe that today we choose to unzip our pants and whip out our love.
Measure it in the view of strangers. See whose is the biggest. More meaningful.
More thought out. Or unique. Whose is frivolous or small. Or cower from the supernova love of others.

This is not a moratorium of love. Just of a day. Of a day that many of you didn't spend with the same people last year. Last Christmas. Last week. Last text.

Last Valentine's Day I loved myself. And I loved Andre 3000. And I loved Cupid lying on his face with an arrow in his back. I loved the idea that an ideal can be ridiculed. Hung high in minority but not be called jaded or unhappy. My color is not green. Nor would I say that my demeanor is unhappy. Melancholy perhaps.

I will say this when I'm married with kids. This is me. I'll never change. I'm barely religious and you think I'm going to be out of pocket, out of mind, punch drunk with envy or amore about some faux Hallmark Holiday. Kick rocks. Heart shaped ones.