I am polyamorous. But what is that? In the vernacular, in society, it has come to mean someone who is in a relationship but wants to sleep around. It is often rife with dishonesty, a euphemism for being insatiable, or being bored with or tired of a current partner without wanting to experience the fear of being alone. I don’t condemn these things in a vacuum, they’re things almost every human feels at one point or another, but I do condemn the dishonesty.
I am polyamorous. In a vacuum. I love, and am capable of loving different people. In different ways even.
I love in a way that eliminates the scariness and the commitment that comes with that word. That word is a descriptor, not a tool. It means I am, in some way, hopelessly enamored with the things that make you who you are. It’s not an attempt to gain a majority of your time or your attention, or to make you feel like you’re beholden to me. It’s a word of appreciation, not of ownership. It means, you are wonderful in ways that I consider myself to be wonderful, and I enjoy celebrating our shared wonderfulness.
We let society define that word too much. Love. It means I want to be with you for the rest of my life and have children and grow old. Or it means I want to sleep with you. It can’t (so it would seem) mean I think you’re amazing in your own unique way. It has to come with qualifications and complications and hidden meanings.
There is the impression that love has to be this force of nature, that it has to mean everything that ever was and is to be…or it means nothing. Anything less leaves its weight removed, its substance diluted. It become a collection of random mouth sounds or arbitrary pen marks.
It can’t mean…say…a different kind of everything.
Well it does to me.