My mother tells me I should be ashamed

of my love. It is too pure, too reasonable,

too full of truth. She tells me,

the human brain is about three to five times

heavier than the human heart,

and yet I let it outweigh

every part of me that knows

better.

And she’s right.

I should be ashamed of

a lot of things,

and I am.

But loving cannot

be one of them.

Because no matter how much it

kills me, it is all I

know.

And it’s the same

as the rat who presses

the lever for pain—

because it’s the only thing it’s ever

been taught to touch.

When I find I have loved too easily,

when I have to choose between

loving one instead of both, or all,

because some people

have decided love cannot be shared,

I think back to when

love was once open-handed—

never meant to be hoarded

or narrowed to fit

the comfort of the crowd.

And if the three of us, with

all our love, turn away, then

what is the lesson I’ve been taught?

My mother says it’s selfish

to want to be understood.

Says I’m too complicated,

never satisfied.

Insatiable.

Then she compares me to my father.

And I agree.

My love was never

a triangle. It has always

been an apeirogon-

so endless,

I can’t even find where it began.