- 2 months ago
And then I see
The woman you’re obsessed with posting
Pictures of Portmeirion
And embroidered ginkgo leaves,
I have to step out of my mind and ask myself
Is she me?
That’s just wishes singing in my sleep.
Would that I
Made a wound in you so deep.
Hide me among the graves
Where the tombstones read of mistakes and yesterdays
Bury me with the folly of youth
And let the silence be the cold dank earth
That stains the veil over my disgrace;
Let none see her. Cover her face!
Drown my name at a widow’s sea
Sang in depths where none can breathe
Let riptides drag my corpse away
From where the decent folk hold sway
Let no remains wash up at shore;
They’d whisper. Tis pity she’s a whore.
At the start, we were all about fire. We burned like Alexandria. Every revelation kicked up old dust and laid bare a new longing for each other. Own me. Take me. Impregnate me. Lock me away. Fuck only me forever.
In the long view, did it matter that we shared this? Did it matter that we both beat a rhythm of fierce need behind the ribcage that seemed in perfect time, when our filth dovetailed so sweetly? In the long view, was it such a revelation that we both had desires? Really, weren’t these facts just placeholders until the long view could truly assert itself?
We were painting by numbers, starting with the greens. Because greens happened to be our favourite colour. And that, we figured, had to mean something.
But you at a scientist and I too broad with the brush; we cannot paint.
How did we move from there to here? There I lived in the starlight of your regard, and with it, burned bright from my own heart. Here, I drink every last flicker of touch, with the thirst of a black hole’s singularity. If your desire is the last light in a shrinking universe, I yearn for enough gravity to soak it up.
Ah, but isn’t too much gravity the very thing. I take up too much space, bend time around me to leave me with all the sorrow and none of the grace of a true lover. I am an unlovely thing in your sight now, no longer the dream but the cold day. My every out-of-focus curve reminds of the biological misdeed I committed. What am I now, to you?
If my heart, my love, my need, my lust, my cunt are not enough for you, what is?
- 5 months ago
I follow Shaenon Garrity’s comics fairly religiously, but it was still Tumblr that alerted me to the existence of this (good, if sad) one. Shaenon’s website has more of her comics listed (though not this one even though the original file is on the site). And I have to mention that she is the creator of Monster of the Week and Skin Horse which I have plugged before.
I’d dropped Shaenon a line asking if she’d mind if I cut up the comic I previously blogged to make it more tumblr friendly, but I see I’m behind the curve here. Hurrah, etc.
(via wilwheaton)Source: shaenon.com
- 5 months ago