Love Cuts

Love cuts, but when it does the feeling is tingly in the way I imagine fairy dusted fireflies would feel. Love’s cuts come clothed in a dressing of false remembrances, unforgivings, and mistakes perceived as malice. Love’s cuts seem to cause unresolvable agony as they lift us from despair, but that is not agony at all. Nah, love’s cuts are not able to produce such pain. That feeling is weakness leaving our bodies. It is all that was negatively familiar being cleansed with compassion, rinsed in understanding, and heat pressed to get out any remaining wrinkles. Love’s cuts leave us as crispy and straight as a pair of Pam Grier, blaxploitation bell bottoms.

Love’s cuts are for our healing.

Love, it cuts. It cuts out the words of melodic, painful prose that play in our mental periphery. That repetitious reiteration of wrong translations spewed from the mouths of human representations and decoded by childlike, fear filled translations, love cuts that out of our imaginations.

Love cuts us for our healing.

Maybe for our sexual healing. “Get up, get up, get up, get up,” says Brother Marvin Gaye, “let’s make love tonight”. Love done cut somebody for their sexual healing.

Love cuts us for our healing.

Love cut with a look that began as an unmoving gaze, remaining constant until the soul of its intended returned the gesture. Love asked for the keys to my car to go put air in my tire and gave me his number and then I called him and then… Oh, wait, this is about love, not about me. I just got so caught up that I made love about me again. Sorry y’all. I’m good now.

Love cuts us for our healing though.

Love cuts the silence of white noise confusion with an invitation to enter and enjoy all the comforts you are due. Love cuts itself to attract its prey with a warm smell of “Welcome home. I am that you are looking for” so that you turn to investigate that faint, familiar aroma of belonging.
Love cuts into my mind and makes me think I am a stand-in for The Queen, Diana Ross, playing as Dorothy in the “Wiz”, and when I think of Rhone I think of a place where there is love overflowing… Wait, play that back. She said “home”, when she thinks of home. Oh well, they sound the same. And I’m from Lexington and he’s on Lexington and… Are y’all she’s not talking about… Well, somehow love cut my girl, and she’s thinking about how nice it would be to go back there. She sang to a listening God to please not make it hard and how the raindrops now have meaning. Love cuts for beautiful, innocent, serene healing.
I could do this all day, think of the ways love has cut me, and how I see it cutting you and describing the lunacy of avoiding what was meant to heal. I could do this all week, until I show you how what was meant to make you weak can end in a week, if you let me. With a Sinead Hartnett level of vulnerability I’ll show you how to love like you never ever loved somebody and give them things they didn’t even know they wanted. I could get Chapelle level good at it and give you the punchline first. “Love cuts and those cuts are meant to heal”. In the middle I would use quippy alliterations, hyperbolic illustrations, and poetic, multi-syllabic mutations of expressions you already heard from some other comedic incarcerations. And boom! At the end I hit you with it again. “Criminal minded, you’ve been blinded. Looking for a love like mine, you can’t find it”… Mmm, nasty!

That boom bap. That flavor in your ear. That was love as a cut, on a hot new track, a DOPE track, leaving lines on your arms, in your veins and coming out every time you breathe. Love is a DOPE that, even when it’s cut, it heals because only love is real. “Nothing real can be threatened. Nothing unreal exists. Herein lies the peace of God” and God is Love.