If you let them ink you to their liking, turn you into what they believe you should be, they will rip my heart out of your chest and watch us scream… Bare your teeth, my Love. Tell them the dark, dark, dark spot in your mind (the one normalcy can’t touch without dying or falling or changing for the better) belongs to me. Remind them that in ink, I am tenderness and terror.
You can lie to them. But between you and me, Love, and the wild wonders my flesh knows of your bones, masks will not stand true. I can still feel you (whispering old wants, weaving new stories) in me. Silence is not a natural environment for love or lust. I can’t delight in us, if you won’t talk to me—
scream your want into my skin, repressed desires grow bitter on the tongue.
the visual poetry
the wee notes…
– I borrowed a partial phrase from my favorite quote, out of The Thirteenth Tale, by Diane Setterfield: “Silence is not a natural environment for stories. They need words. Without them they grow pale, sicken and die. And then they haunt you.” Seriously, they do you… with chainsaws… and mad ravens.
– linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.