Real Love

Inspired by Franny Choi's "Real Talk"

This is an ideal (poetic) conversation I would have with my mom that will never happen.

Art by Rebecca Artim

Me: I have a secret, one that's forcing its way up through my throat. I can't yawn wide enough, but I'll melt if I don't pour out this glittering gold.

Mom: What is it?

Me: Call me Midas. I'm burning up from the lines I've etched into the sand, turning into a salt pillar. My toes and fingers are eating up blue as quickly as the lies I've been telling you.

Mom: Can you tell me the truth?

Me: Tell me that you'll peer through the shutters, misty-eyed with wonder, before the sepsis takes hold.

Mom: Can you please trust me?

Me: For two decades, I've loved soft curves and tender skin, lied to myself that would change, stroked my paper with an empty pen. I loved her when she gave me a bracelet and pledged Best Friends Forever. I loved her as she looked back at me, my eyes begging for a kiss.

Mom: Why didn't you tell me sooner?

Me: I've drowned in silence to escape their violence—a deafening drum, a tree toppling in the forest. If I'm the only one to hear it, did I make it fall?

Mom: Why would you ever doubt my love?

Me: For two decades, I sewed myself shut and got tossed overboard. No heavy burdens allowed.

Mom: What do you want now?

Me: I'm scared of the unknown. I don't want to inhale dust left in your trace until you're implanted in my brain. Nothing takes root here anyway.

Will you love me?

Mom: Will you let me love you?

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