On making art that turns my boyfriend off

Also: Hi I'm back, really.

I am not a poet, as you probably know if you’ve read only this sentence. I can’t even make the claim that I’m “into poetry” because I’m not. I don’t have a favorite poet, I have favorite people who happen to make poetry, and I mostly love the poetry I love because I either love the people that make it which causes me to actually engage with it, or because I follow them on Instagram where I can’t help but ingest it, or something like that.

I don’t believe I’ve ever said “That’s my favorite book of poems!” and if I did, I was lying¹ because I don’t have one because reading a book of poems is my personal hell. I listen to Audible books on 2x and while that’s not mutually exclusive with reading poetry, it is for me.

The point is, I am not into poetry? Which is what makes it so totally fucking confounding that I not only made a poem, which is bad, but also that I shared that bad poem with the subject, which is my boyfriend. On our four month anniversary. That I think only I was celebrating. That I sent in an email without a subject line. That I am certain turned him off.

To be fair to him, he’s lovely and I know that’s not what actually happened, but to be fair to me, that’s exactly what happened. The only suitable analogy to describe how any of this feels is that I pooped in his toilet, didn’t flush, drove away from the premises, and then waited with a kind of desperate anticipation for him to bring it up.

Or, for fans of The Crown, this scene literally:

There is something specifically haunting in this situation, in that I’m a writer, and a good one, and that instead of making the thing that probably would have landed—like a personal essay on the depth of my love and adoration or the cute circumstances of our meeting or literally any aspect of our relationship that I could have completely nailed and maybe even sold to the New York Times—I wrote a poem I don’t even want my mom to see. And then I shared it. With a person I want to continue having sex with me. Again, in case you missed it, in an email without a subject line. That I sent on our four month anniversary that we were NOT actively celebrating. (Of which he initially said he “didn’t get”. That I then had to resend. And then get off the phone with him while I waited for him to read it.)

Just, diarrhea feelings.

There’s also something hauntingly familiar: I’ve stood in fields, both literally and figuratively, with my heart on offer in its plain, unshiny, rough-shod wrapping—a flawed, unedited, amateur attempt at my truest, whole self, laid carefully upon the altar of certain rejection—more times than I can honestly recount. What’s different this time isn’t the recipient with his big kind heart and firmly secured love for me (awkward poetry and all), or the fact that there’s no actual rejection (besides the one I’m playing out in my head, that is not actually happening). What’s different is how unsilly I feel. Where I’d normally crumble at my perceived weakness, or for allowing myself to be so vulnerable, or for being so stupid as to risk what’s still a new relationship with my maybe-too-much-too-soon professions—instead I’m thinking about other things that feel like they matter more.

I remember where I was when I started writing it—it was Mother’s Day and I’d just met his lovely, large, welcoming family who’d made me feel like I’d come home, and I was overflowing with a kind of unspeakable joy. It was late that Sunday, hours after the event, and I was sequestered at a hotel an hour away to finish working on a book project, wearing oversized SKIMS sweats (sorry) and his big brown flannel, and instead of writing the book, I was writing this little poem about falling in love with him. I’m thinking about how over the next few days I carefully edited it in my Notes app and sent it to a song-writer friend who confirmed it was, indeed, a poem. I’m recalling how the few times that were hard and I wanted to be mean, how instead I’d edit it a little more, and how reading it over and over like that kept reminding me of how magic he was and we were, even as we hit reality and discovered we could, in fact, annoy one another.

There’s something in here about self-authorship; about allowing my acts to be misunderstood, even by my beloved. There’s also something in here about self-worth, the kind that I think has grown from standing in so many fields, placing some version of that same fucking poem into the hands of all the wrong humans, who couldn’t even read the language, and what that does to you—how it forces you to stop giving it away so carelessly but also forces you to stop having to make sense to be loved.

If the last few years have taught me anything at all, it’s that the externalities, including how other people feel toward you, including how your new boyfriend feels towards you, are always and forever fleeting. In a past life I yoked my worth to my success, which means I yoked my worth to my failures, and it broke me. You probably remember; you were probably there.

Here is no different. Success in business, success as a desirable girlfriend, success at being liked, success as an artist: is my worth and self-conception totally dependent on these things? Can I look dumb, can I be misunderstood even by the one person I need to understand me, can I deliver a boner-killer poem on a four-month anniversary only I appear to be celebrating, can I do all these things and still find I am okay, still find myself to be worthy?

Yeah.

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Disclaimer: I wrote this piece prior to asking Jeremy (subject, boyfriend) what happened on his end, and this essay is based solely on the experience I was having on my side (mostly in my head), of which he was completely unaware. When I read this essay to him, he explained his experience was that we celebrated our four month anniversary the day before because I had to write the actual day of (true) and because I made plans with another friend the actual night of (also true!), and that the poem was special, cherished, and absolutely did not turn him off (most likely true!).

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Five things I’m into right now/thinking about.

Because I’m easing back in, I’m keeping this short to a few things I’m v. into r. now.

This book. Just trust me.

This song for starting the day right.

This book I have an ARC of and cannot put down that you can pre-order

This newsletter opening about Nunya/internet etiquette: “As a reminder, being disappointed in someone you follow on the internet for one reason or another is on you - not them.” Diane was the last guest on our Quitted podcast and was one of the most popular of all the shows we did.

My Baggu cross-body fanny pack bag². Look I hate hawking anything that stands to end up in a landfill, but as chaos person who loses everything having a kangeroo pouch is actually saving the environment—I lose 90% less sunglasses. [Related: “I wrote five books with ADHD”— I think about this essay by

Rebecca Makkai

all the time.]

Subscribe △ Ask me a question △ 1:1 Coaching

1. I actually do love poetry, especially poetry made by people I love. I’ve blurbed Joy Sullivan’s book of poems (Instructions For Going Out West) which I read cover to cover in one sitting (not how you’re supposed to do it maybe?) and keep by my bedside;

Chris La Tray

’s One Sentence Journal is also something I am always referencing as is Bone by

Yrsa Daley-Ward

. It’s mostly that it’s hard for me to slow down enough to be into poetry, not that I cannot appreciate it.

2. I use Bookshop.org and collect affiliate income on books. I have stopped using Amazon, though some older posts have links that are still directed to Amazon. I do not collect affiliate income on anything besides books and also, often link without using an affiliate code.