lovesickness: an ode to shalimar

i have spent the last three days humbled
on hands and knees, relinquishing all of myself
into the welcoming mouth of the toilet seat.
i don't know what is wrong with me
other than a still heart and a busy mind.
i have not seen you for a while but i am certain that you hate me.
i can't help but think that this is my fault,
wonder if i should be giving more of myself-
something other than mucus and vile,
sour words and needy looks.
i look back on the day that i cut my hair,
embarrassed that all i had to give you was
a lock of it, a small insignificant piece of me, knowing that
you wouldn't have accepted all of me if i had offered. i've learned that
it is useless conveying to you the importance of that action-
i don't know how to show you that i've tied myself to you,
that you now possess a piece of the last nineteen years of my life.
i bet you threw me in an underwear drawer, or underneath the bed,
let me drop unnoticed behind the bookcase:
out of sight, out of mind.
i now know what lovesick looks like
although it is not the kind of love (or sickness)
that you would accuse me of being capable of. it is more like a mother
ripped away from her suckling child
by the guilt instilled in her through a man's laughing eyes.
my body is sick from a lack of love
and your neglect is speeding up the dying process.
i wish i could leave this body,
fly away to worlds untouched and forget, but
i am still learning that we are rooted to this earth by hatred and hips,
destined to be left behind,
no lumps of flesh to save us,
flapping behind our backs or between our legs.

and when hagar looked down upon his beautiful face and choked,
i'm sure she contemplated driving that knife
in the centered nook right below her ribcage,
confused as to which she should aim for:
the heart or the womb,
both equal conspirators in her shame.