An Imitation of Art

Ana Hein

I will love you with too many commas, / but never any asterisks. — Sarah Kay

My love poems are an unbridled mess—I will admit too much of myself to them, will sing their praises from the moment they are conceived, will love them far too quickly; in other words, you cannot find a person more opposed to killing their darlings. Sitting with a pencil in my lap that I can play with is too tempting; there are so many things I need to say so I leave no space for silence. Commas litter in abundance, fragments assembled but lacking subjects, objects, actions, or any meaning at all; I can never end anything happily; I always warp it into something appalling. Any sensation of joy must be stamped out—if I mention love, it probably comes with asterisks.