It's so cold
My face froze
It fell from my skull
It shattered below
My eyes wiggle and roll
They stared up from below
They saw you and cried
'Cause you're the reason summer died.
|stories shape our realities
Midori Friedbauer
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My love, my sun, my dearest soulmate... I want your light to wash me out, fade me, turn me to shadow. You're the vibrant center of my universe. You're the flashing star streaking through my mind. You're the eclipse that consumes me. I love you, so. I miss you, so. I want to hold you tight beside me and never let you go. I'm tired of this distance, the difference in our orbits must wane before I wax into madness from missing your pane -- the windowpane of your stained glass, the windows of your soul. They are hazel but not unlike gold. You're my love, my sun, my dearest one.
The idea of love
It twists itself into a coil
Wrapping itself up into a hard
KNOT, a solid // heavy bulging
cluster pushing up on
the heart from below //
the abdomen
where the butterflies search
finding nourishment // human sorrow
ONCE rooted,
it sprouts black tendrils
hot and sharp, digging
slowly into the network
of nerves bundled // on the little airlocks
that sit on each side of the human engine
// Leaving little room for breath,
and plenty for bile
This is a poem about how I felt when someone who hurt me told me afterward that they loved me. It was a confusing and painful experience. It was an alien, violent caricature of love. I subverted the idea of the butterflies one gets in their stomach when they have loving feelings for someone. Instead the butterflies feed on human sorrow like vultures, and the idea of love takes physical manifestation as a malevolent force that attacks one's vital organs.