Men and Dogs

“Men are dogs,” I say to my friend as she kneels at the foot of her bed, like a child waiting for her mother’s strong arms. Yet, I am her friend tonight, so my scrawny arms make a cheap cradle. I think of how offensive this saying must be to dogs. To refer to them as if they are cruel. Men are men. Dogs are just dogs. It is unfortunate to love the walls you slam your fists against. And so I continue, “Men cannot be your life,” even though they have made it this way since Adam’s anatomy.
Women are not birthed from the ribs of sanctified men. We are the result of God’s unknown empathy, His so-called virtues.
“You are too beautiful,” I plead for her to believe me, but I am only the mirror she crumbles at the foot of.
It is so special to love her how she loves men: so tenderly and loyally, so obliterating and destructive, so very special.
 

Her tears stain my shirt like spilled white wine, “Too beautiful to cry like this over him.” She is drunk off her misery.
Intoxicated by the thought of her God abandoning her, just as mine had. I sit wondering when I will next sneak a drink during mass.
No one is home to love her, so she takes shots of his seductive thoughts and down’s his unwanted hands like beer from a funnel.
I clean her face with my sweatshirt and let her keep it; I give it to her, a cat bringing home a mouse, hoping she sees it as a gift.
I ask her, let me show you love, let me cook for you, let me kiss you the right way where your stained glass lips won’t break,
let me in. But it came out, “I hope you find the love you deserve.” She responded you are what I deserve. We left it at that.
It is so special to love her how she loves men: so ancient and primal, so wholly and holy, so very special, just like dogs.