No. 3.

I am sitting on my couch with an unfinished drawing of an antler wrapped in ribbon and words in my lap, and I say to my friend, "You know, I don't even believe in love anymore. As stupid as that probably sounds." And I think about how often I write about it, how often its themes trickle their way into whatever I draw/paint/make messes out of, and I wonder if I'm a liar. I think that I'm a liar. Either because of what I said to her, or because of what I make, or because I keep telling myself that love is a myth, blah blah biology, pheromones, etc. I love someone. He is about my height and temperament and my stomach hurts in a good-bad way when I think I love you but I don't say it because he doesn't say it and I don't think he loves me back so instead I tell myself that love is body science. How's that for a cop-out explanation? I mean it though, just like I mean it when I say that I want to be wrong.

(See also: Why I have not posted a poem here in over a month.)