To be loved by a woman

It is a remarkable thing
To be loved by a woman.
Women carry the strongest love.
Their hearts are made of ocean currents and lava
Constantly giving forth, drawing out, pressing down.
To be loved by a woman is to define the word “home”.
When a woman loves you,
She is a mother.
A grandmother.
A girlfriend.
A friend.
A quiet voice at the back of the room with ferocity thumping on her breastbone.

Women don’t love with their hearts or their souls or something else poetic and obvious as such things.
Women love with the weight of their ancestors.
They love with the burning flame at the earth’s core.
Women love with the uncertainty of their future
and the fear of death
and the promise of despair.

To be loved by a woman is to know what it feels like to be suffocated in love.
You know what it means to misunderstand her and to furrow your brow as you watch her
Loving you, who you once thought so unlovable.

You are not unlovable.
To exist before a woman is to have an opportunity to be loved deeply
And to be loved deeply, if only for a moment,
Is enough to charge a lifetime.

To be loved by a woman is to know what it feels like to be an all powerful shrike,
for you will eventually pierce her in her chest.
You cannot prevent it, though you will try.
She will love you more for trying.

She will tell you she loves you in a hundred voices.

“Did you make it home safe or not?”
“Why didn’t you text me back?”
“Do you need money?”
“You’re mama’s baby, you know that.”

She means it.

To be loved by a woman is to be loved truly.
Women love you more than they love air or water or their own beating heart.
They will give you their breath and their breast.
Their ribs and their skin.
Their eyes, their wisdom, and their blood.

You will feed from her before you turn from her
And in your darkest attitudes you will reach through the shadows
Searching for her embrace.