Is love reserved for the deserving. Is love a thing you want to want but never want to speak about. Is love fair and isn’t fairness failing us all the time.
You would be surprised by your own capacity for self-deception. The ways you return to the troubled chambers of your heart to renegotiate the things you say you believe.
Love and death will change all things but one will take longer to believe in than the other.
Lust blooms thick with desire, and desire, lust. I ask him to do twisted things to me and he just smiles because he knows before I ask. But I have to ask. Little penitent. Little supplicant. Little life boat tossed out upon a turbulent sea.
I am trying to feel for the forked tongue of the sickness that is my wanting him, use my crimson mouth to suck out the disease.
In the dark garden of the endless night, a tender moonflower bends her face up into the emptiness of the open, waiting air.
He watches my wet eyes as they fall along the concrete shadows. He is patient.
I wait like an animal, hot with obedience.
He has me read for him as I bathe. My voice is hollowed out of lavender and sage.
The author speaks of a small black bird she thought was dead until it flew suddenly all about the house, crazed, distressed, the arrogance of life so full of the other side of death.
‘And it had gotten its body stuck, with a kind of buoyancy, inbetween heaven and earth and death and demolition. ‘
In a secret room behind the golden gates of the vast expanse of the mind of God is the feathered perversion He sows inside of those He chooses for reasons beyond understanding.
Spread out wide like seeded soil.
Winged sweet burdens of tireless affliction.
Only love and death will change the game entire. I let out a soft sigh as the words wrap tighter and tighter around my throat.
I beg for touch. Continue pleading, even as he touches me.
There is no such thing as love without need.
Pleasure without ache. Satisfaction without longing.
There is no such thing as deserving.
. . . . .
Quote: Hélène Cixous, Stigmata