‘… love turned inside out like a glove to reveal it’s ugly stitching. And what is love stitched from?’
Yesterday, I was riveted by this question I read.
Is love like a glove? No, not that kind of glove… but when love materializes as a perfectly fitting exquisite glove, could the stitches that hold it together be by contrast anything but ugly?
I know the answer is yes it is possible. But I believe there is no deception at that. What keeps us together could be revolting, pretty, confusing and of course ugly… this is not ‘blinded by love’. This is how mature love is nurtured.
Don’t ask me why you stayed. Ask me how she laughed. How she breathed when sleeping. Ask how she gets my headaches and I feel her cramps. How I slammed the door. How she drank her coffee. How I lit my cigarette. How she broke the glass. How she broke my heart. Last time she cried.
Some of our relationships are leather, some crochet, some are soft silk, some are rough wool… but we weaved them all from small threads, small stitches made of wounds, mistakes, guilt, and a thousand beautiful small memories…
Let’s hide the needlework and the scars, and only show the world the pretty gloves we make. Let’s bring out our taffetas, embroider them with small buds of roses and keep the stitches on the inside… keep them inside warm, pulsating close to the bare skin. But always know they are there. Always know they are the stitches.
- what are your love stitches made from?
6 comments:
but why decieve?
i agree that without the stitches the glove will tear into little peices of shallow cloth with bright colors.
my glove (s) are stitched with scars, ironic as that may sound.
yes, exactly scares. and always while keeping remarkable decorum.
but decorum to whom? thw world? and why? i'd like to one day be able to shed the glove and show the scars, as usgly as they may look
Not necessarily to the world, but to both of us in a relationship. it's like C. Aznavour's song (can't believe I'm quoting Aznavour) 'il faut savoir':
Il faut savoir cacher sa peine
Sous le masque de tous les jours
Et retenir les cris de haine
Qui sont les derniers mots d'amour
my love is not stitched with any material. it's kept together randomly and passively. it's not a glove, never a glove because it never fits perfectly. only when it fits so close, we need the stitching. my love is a cloth that lays there hiding what's beneath, my hands underneath, seeking protection at times and holding the cloth in a place at all times.
but if we're on aznavour (hahaha), maybe more 'Tu te laisses aller' than 'il faut savoir'
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