"Mine," you'd say, and
"Yours," I'd reply.
Yours, yours, yours,
simple, simple, simple,
the nonconscious heart-jerk;
like breathing..
But, like breathing, when you think about it,
it suddenly becomes harder.

"Forever," you'd say, and
"Always," I'd reply.
Always, always, always,
simple, simple, simple,
but this reflex-reaction slash
conditioned-compassion
seemed too simple, too good
to be real, to be true.

"I love you," you'd say, and
"You, too," I'd reply.
I love you, I love you, I…

Simple, yes, so very, very simple,
so very, very simply wrong:
more a rut, more rote than emotion, more
habit, more trite than truth?
Was I just your pavlov's dog,
for three years of simple positive reinforcement?

So you diagnosed me with simple hysteria,
bade me go over my childhood memories
and dissected the deeper meaning of my dreams,
and like a good girl i laid down on the couch
and talked as the latent thoughts that were actually
thoughts surfaced..
But those went away
with the proper pills and reassurances.
So simple, so easy to swallow...

I had noticed it before, but you allayed my fears
with your jargon, your terminology
describing problems I didn't even have.
My only problem was that I wouldn't
not
think.

Simple.

But I'm no longer addicted,
your little blue lies no longer
in my heartstream.
Fuck that, and fuck
you and your good intentions,
saving me from myself and
my uncomfortable thought.
I'd rather have that than
all your simple answers that
don't answer my questions but
make so much sense. And fuck
me for wanting to believe them
in the first place, for not-thinking
that things could and should be simple,
that emotions could be boiled down
to a trite three-word panacea. Fuck
me for wanting, for thinking you could simply
make it better.

Love
is simply not meant to be
simple.