Does she love you yet?

with all that blood-hungry, burning abandon only a crazy woman could,

(She told me I was crazy. After months of her water torture evasion and your whiskey-eyed fuckery she had the audacity to tell me that. But she’d need to be crazy too to handle you.)

Like a rose through teeth that get knocked through with stones,

does she love you?

Like a timid hurricane

with the delicacy of a bull,

does she love you?

Staying is not love,

and sex she will lie about enjoying isn’t either.

So think, deeply, then answer:

Does she love you yet?

Does she do what is easiest or what is terrifying and unknown

(The easiest mimics love but isn’t really, the unknown feels like staring into death but trust, that is her love)

Does she come to you exhausted or relaxed and bored

(Does she travel through storms and seek you out like a lighthouse signaling for respite or is she merely trying to pass the time)

Is she still restless, legs moving, keys jangling in hand, eyes darting,

does she love you yet?

Does she hide in you or find herself,

does she face her demons with you by her side or run away into your chest

digging deeper into the pit of you,

nails sharp, grabbing onto your heart,

forcing you to feel something,

but is that something love?

Does she love you yet with the entirety of a full moon night

or, like the moon’s phases, change and shift in shape, even sometimes disappear,

does she push and pull and quell and quicken and soften and harden at such a dizzying pace

you don’t even know what you are anymore

and to you, is that love?

Does that girl,

(the dark milk girl

that silent sea,

this slithering little thing

that doll-face coward,

my heart, my god, my heart)

does she love you yet

and having thought of all of this,

do you truly love her?