Καύλωσέ με! (αν μπορείς…)

"I already said too much. I already shared too much, and I want all my secrets back. I hate getting close to people these days, I always regret sharing too much, caring too much, doing too much, feeling too much."

 

if i wanted to fuck you
i would wake up buried in your collarbones
i would sit on the edge of my bed
spine ridges arched pointing directly into my closet
of skeletons
if i wanted to fuck you
i would make home in your lap
undress you like your mother did
kissing your rib cage wishing i could sink into every inch of you
if i wanted to fuck you
i would bite holes through your neck into your throat
i would unbury you like a corpse
i would give you reason to breathe
if i wanted to fuck you
i would glide myself like sound waves bouncing off of you
make you memorize my name like i was born for you to whimper it

if i wanted to fuck you
there would be miles of shredded skin
there would be scars on your back where for once in my life i wanted someone to be
that
close
but if i wanted to make love to you
i would buy you a train ticket
i would sound proof my room
i would border up my windows
if i wanted to make love to you
you should be nothing less
than terrified

 

“Every flower must grow through dirt.”

“I wanted to see where beauty comes from
without you in the world, hauling my heart
across sixty acres of northeast meadow,
my pockets filling with flowers.
Then I remembered,
it’s you I miss in the brightness
and body of every living name:
rattlebox, yarrow, wild vetch.
You are the green wonder of June,
root and quasar, the thirst for salt.
When I finally understand that people fail
at love, what is left but cinquefoil, thistle,
the paper wings of the dragonfly
aeroplaning the soul with a sudden blue hilarity?
If I get the story right, desire is continuous,
equatorial. There is still so much
I want to know: what you believe
can never be removed from us,
what you dreamed on Walnut Street
in the unanswerable dark of your childhood,
learning pleasure on your own.
Tell me our story: are we impetuous,
are we kind to each other, do we surrender
to what the mind cannot think past?
Where is the evidence I will learn
to be good at loving?
The black dog orbits the horseshoe pond
for treefrogs in their plangent emergencies.
There are violet hills,
there is the covenant of duskbirds.
The moon comes over the mountain
like a big peach, and I want to tell you
what I couldn’t say the night we rushed
North, how I love the seriousness of your fingers
and the way you go into yourself,
calling my half-name like a secret.
I stand between taproot and treespire.
Here is the compass rose
to help me live through this.
Here are twelve ways of knowing
what blooms even in the blindness
of such longing. Yellow oxeye,
viper’s bugloss with its set of pink arms
pleading do not forget me.
We hunger for eloquence.
We measure the isopleths.
I am visiting my life with reckless plenitude.
The air is fragrant with tiny strawberries.
Fireflies turn on their electric wills:
an effulgence. Let me come back
whole, let me remember how to touch you
before it is too late.”

— Stacie Cassarino, Summer Solstice

 

"I want to hate you
and I cannot.
But I cannot
love you either."
_Erica Jong

 

 

Last meal...  
 

 

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