Love is not Love by Marissa Glover

that warns me I better not get fat.

You’ll leave me if I gain weight? How many pounds?

Because I can gain three right here, right now

before you finish talking—and will, with pleasure,

just in French fries and raspberry bliss martinis,

and I’ll happily lick the chocolate rim clean

and tongue-dive to the bottom of the glass

to tell you through my greasy, sweet, salty lips

to kiss my growing ass.

 

Love is not love

that hooks up with a sophomore tonight

and bangs a freshman tomorrow and tells me

to get over it because we aren’t exclusive.

Excuse me, Mr. FWB, but love is not love

that trades one body for another,

moving in darkness from cover to cover,

spreading heartache like some kind of disease

no condom prevents and no drug can ease.

 

Love is not love

that lies or hides behind equivocation—word games

and mind-fucks show no consideration for the woman

who hangs herself on every word.

Your words are rocks I put in my pockets

before I walk in the river.

You hold my heart hostage when you’re sorry but

not sorry enough to change. The head of the house,

you forbid me to feel what I was made to feel,

and tell me that what I know that I know that I know isn’t real.

 

Love is not love

that dumps me because I won’t sleep with you.

Sex is not how I measure your worth—

even if it’s how you measure mine.

I’m sure the space between your legs is a magical place,

but is it where your thoughts are born and raised—

where you show you’re smart and funny and kind?

No offense to your beautiful body, but why get angry

that I want to fall in love with your mind?

Can your cock hold a pen to paper and write

the story of your life? I’ll open my arms

to your poems, your fluff, your deepest thoughts,

your scary stuff, your emo diary off the cuff

journal doodle pad you hate your dad random Hufflepuff.

Willing to read you as you long to be read,

and you break up because I won’t jump into bed.

Love is not love

that tries to shrink my will to fit your size.
My name is not Anastasia, Mr. Grey.

Go away. Take your toys and knotted ties;

I don’t care what you saw Mia Khalifa do online.

Some girls might fall for your bandwagon appeal—

your logical fallacy rough sex gang train fantasy plea bargain deal.

But don’t assume my Yes to a date or a drink or a dance

means I want to get nasty or get in your pants.

The only blurred line I see

is the one between the man you are

and the man you ought to be.

For the record—

My name is Marissa, not THOT, T-H-O-T.

If you slap me, I won’t turn the other cheek.

You Ray Rice me, I’ll call the police.

Unless you are my child, there are conditions to my love.

If I did not give birth to you—end of.

 

Love is not love

that looks in the mirror at the end of a date

and wonders in tears, What part of me does he hate?

And then stuffs her face instead of facing her stuff

so she can take what she’s given though it’s never enough,

instead of walking away from anyone who says she’s too much.

God is love and God’s in me—self-love and Jesus

will make me complete. No more starvation or deprivation,

pretending I’m content to eat the crumbs

that fall from a man’s table while I sit at his feet.

 

My love for you lives in mitochondria

and spans the Texas sky,

a full-bodied 47 Cheval Blanc Viking war cry.

But love is not love that forfeits her own soul’s worth,

so in all of my loving,

I’ll love myself first.

 

Marissa Glover lives and dreams in central Florida, where she shares way more of her thoughts than necessary. Marissa considers sharing her form of charitable giving. If it counted as a tax deduction, she’d be rich.

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