The Trouble With Normal

They tell me love is supposed to be smooth.

Like silk sheets, morning coffee,

Or a well-oiled lie.

Predictable. Palatable. Safe.

God, what a boring catastrophe.

But I’m not a man built for symmetry.

No, I thrive in the jagged,

The ragged edges of affection.

Where loyalty is not a convenience,

But a war.

A brutal, beautiful siege.

You see, in a normal relationship,

They hit the first low and call it fate.

They flee.

They say,

“We weren’t meant to be.”

As if love were a subway schedule.

No delays. No fire.

No test of resolve.

But I believe in the suffering.

Not as a fetish,

Not as some misguided martyrdom,

But as proof.

Proof that if we bleed, we belong.

That if we hurt,

We’re still holding on.

I don’t offer calm seas.

I offer storms and the chance to survive them.

Because what is love

If it cannot withstand a little hell?

Or even crave it?

And yes, it’s a paradox.

This knowledge that I may never be fair

To the heart I ask to follow mine.

But then again,

Fairness is a currency I’ve long stopped spending.

I trade in truth.

In rawness.

In the kind of love that

Breaks your ribs when it hugs you too tight,

But never lets go.

Emotional loyalty.

That’s my religion.

Not comfort. Not ease.

But love,

That survives the fall

And crawls back,

Bloody-knuckled,

Still whispering,

"I'm yours".