Let Me Read You a Poem

I haven’t had a serious romantic partner really see me in years. See what I could do for them, yes. See their projected idea of me, yes. See only the parts of me they wanted to see, yes. See me and decide oops, never mind, yes. But truly see me, all of me, and still love me the way my friends do? No, not until recently.

In August, I reconnected with a man I’d gone on one date with four years ago. The universe really said, “Here’s a second chance. Don’t fuck it up.”

Heard. Loud and clear. I liked this man so much when we first met and I’d felt so comfortable around him. We had a ton in common and spent hours talking. The timing wasn’t right, for many reasons. But here he was again and none of the reasons to not pursue something before existed now. I knew I liked him and had thought about him in the intervening years. He had also thought about me. It felt special.

I hadn’t dated in a long time. I wasn’t even thinking about it. I spent tons of time with friends, the ones who see me fully and love me wholly. I had stopped thinking about the male gaze and had been prioritizing comfort, which for me still means dresses a lot of the time but almost always with sneakers and very little makeup. As a late diagnosed autistic woman, I have all but stopped masking and really try not to if I can help it. The burn out isn’t really worth it. So, I made the decision for the second time in my life to show up fully from day one, as the overly enthusiastic weirdo I am, and if I was too much, he wasn’t really for me after all.

I knew immediately that this was the right decision. We saw one another clearly and couldn’t get enough. Falling in love wasn’t on either of our bingo cards for this year but here we are, in love.

It’s a longer story than I want to tell here, right now, but in November I found myself doxxed by someone on right wing social media. It wasn’t my first time at this particular rodeo but I was on edge nonetheless. I found myself at home alone the night after it happened. I was in bed reading when I heard someone in the house. I didn’t really think the unthinkable was happening but why the fuck was there someone in my house? A friend of the house was in the neighborhood and let herself in because everyone’s cars were home, something that under normal circumstances would have be fine. She had no idea how on edge I was or that she’d taken a few months off my life.

The man I’ve fallen in love with, a chef at a restaurant near my neighborhood, texted to check in before he headed home for the night. I told him what happened and that I was shook. He offered to come over. I surprised my hyper independent self by saying, “Yes, please, could you?” I knew deep down nothing was going to happen but I also knew I’d feel better if someone was there with me.

I opened the door when he arrived, my hair tangled and wild, my eyes swollen from angry tears, wearing a big, old, gross t-shirt with many holes. We hugged and I thanked him for coming, said I was sorry for looking a mess. He said “Of course. It’s no problem. And you look like… I don’t care. I love you.”

We went to bed and I slept well, feeling safe and loved.

A few days later, Love Poem with Apologies for my Appearance by Ada Limón popped up on Instagram. A favorite poem of mine for many years, it hit differently this reading.

Buy me some thread