selfish

Selfishness. That's what I'm struggling with. I have been accused of being selfish. I have been called icy, hard, and volcanically self-contained. 

I've been called cruel, and unforgiving and unavailable. I've been called a butcher with a surgeon's touch—apparently I cleave hearts with practiced precision.

I do not mind being called cruel or clinical in my decision making. I know that I am clinical in my love, and diplomatic with my intimacy. But I do not want to be selfish. There is, I think, a distinction to be made between those of us who love completely, and those of us who want to save some for the next one. 

I'm oscillating between the two—on one hand, I want (I want I want I want) to be all glass and glowing bride; to blush red-gold under someone's gaze like I've swallowed the sun. On the other hand I am afraid of my own transparency—all glass breaks and all that glitters was once whole.

But to save some for the next one is to, inevitably, keep some from the one right now. The force of pulling back doors that say “push” is only going to break them. I don't know what's worse: pulling or pushing away. It all seems to end the same way. Reckless abandon or cautious dispensary—either way, every person I've loved is asking to barter: how much for one night of intimacy? How much for a decade? I'm no less of a prostitute if you pay me in gilded whispers. 

How much of myself do I need to mine to become selfless? If I give you everything, if I excavate my heart strip my body down to the bone, am I then selfless? 

Call me selfish, call me cold. Call me miser and call me shrew. 

Call me crazy, but I'd rather die warrior than martyr.

Eleven steps to your girl's heart.

Good evening, class. Today's lesson is: Eleven steps to your girl's heart.

My professor told me that the easiest way to a girl's heart was the path of least resistance.

Step one: find out what she likes. My girl likes fighting with boys and shooting beer cans out back. Wrestle with her, and make her shotgun those beers.

Step two: Tell her how much you like her hair. Down or up, she'll ask you. Tell her you like it braided into a hangman's rope; that you would happily die in the mouth of its noose.

Step three: Take her dancing. She'll tell you she doesn't know how. Tell her it's just like fighting. God knows you know how to do that! Make sure to play spar on the dance floor. Shock the pearls off the little old ladies behind you.

Step four: Call her by her full name. She's wince and tell you you sound like her dad. Smile down at her and say, "call me daddy".

Step five: Run your fingers up and down her ribs. Tell her she's your xylophone, your angel harp. Your little harpie. Laugh when she looks confused.

Step six: Tell her you're going to cook for her. Meat is for the men, remember? Eat your vegetables. Call me daddy.

Step seven: Tell her you can see your xylophone through the little white dress. Tell her to wear black instead. Take her dancing.

Step eight: Play spar on the dance floor. We've done this before, haven't we? Take her home. She doesn't want to. She whips you with her hangman's hair on her way out. Take her home anyway.

Step nine: Kiss her. Hard. Tell her it's just red lipstick on her teeth. She whimpers when you hug her—your little harpie. Someone broke a string on your angel harp.

Step ten: I don't want to fight! She wheezes. It's just like dancing, you tell her.

Step eleven: Slip the noose over her head. Feel the fight go out of her. She didn't want to fight anyway. The easiest way to a girl's heart is that path of least resistance, remember?