I and me are always too deeply in conversation.
I like running because then my heart is pounding for a reason I can understand.
i will wade out
by e.e. cummings
i will wade out
till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
in the sleeping curves of my body
Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery
with chasteness of sea-girls
Will i complete the mystery
of my flesh
I will rise
After a thousand years
And set my teeth in the silver of the moon
Thank you so much, gorgeous. This is such a sweet message.
What annoys me the most is when someone who I don’t know tells me that I am not being myself.
Tell me you weren’t starving. Tell me that
you have been dreaming of me more often
than you could count, that you don’t prefer
your mother’s love to mine. Tell me how you
would never let me beg in order to get you to
stay. Tell me how you wanted to escape from
your own body. Tell me that you came freely,
that six little pomegranate seeds have never
tasted so good. Tell me how they felt, sliding
down the silk of your esophagus, resting at
home in the pit of your belly. Tell me that you
will always return, like rain. Like roses. Even
the earth misses you when you are gone. You
are crucial to both of us. It is a fixation that I
can understand. Convince me that you cannot
wait to come back, that you prefer me to the
sun. Tell me that you know how I fought for
you. Your mother makes the days longer on
purpose and I grow homesick in the absence
of your body. Tell me that you chose me. That
you love me. That you crave the dark.