I keep trying to remove myself from love, extract ego like a mass, irradiate adoration to wither any lingering whiff of self so I can see it clearly—what is facet, what is fragment. I wore white shoes to my confirmation and now I hold everything to that standard of purity. I want love so clean that when I put my self back into it, I can forego fear. Peel off every edge of need. Find love a fencepost, its root so deep and concrete I could never bend it to my aching will. If I could anoint your feet with oil, would you find me right after the resurrection? Would you love me like a fencepost, manmade and immobile? In all my mythology, there are only two loves: selfish and selfless. Both have fractured me.
