Your Body is Not My Body

Your body is not my body
You don’t need to take those rocks from your chest and hurl them through my windows
I’m already broken enough, don’t you see?

but the one thing that isn’t
is that I refuse to be afraid of heights

and every morning I get into a hot air balloon and float up into the sky.
that’s joy, flame underneath and bright colours up top
because down below is just a pit of all we could carry

My body goes through metamorphosis, heaviness into light to save itself

without doing that

I

just

sink

suffocating in a mine shaft filled with stormwater

so I go up, whether you’re with me or not but you can follow me out, if you want to

And even if
even if
even if we are on fire, so what?
you can grow many things out of ashes.

You say you’ve been burned before but babe, I already lost my wings, time and time again this body has been alight
that horrible scent of charred flesh
then plucked like a dead canary, feathers ripped off
bloody back, kneeling down prostrate and praying to nobody in a tunnel with no end.
but now my god is eros
see I’m not afraid of flying, and no matter how many rocks you hold
this balloon can still carry you.

Beast

I tell her she has brown eyes like me.
Her brother has blue eyes like Dad.
Parts handed down like quilts, eyes from so far back and so far across the sea I don’t even know where my own body was made.
And I see in my hands, heart, lungs everything you gave me, that scarlet bloom of sickness in my chest, bursting up into the air.

I remember hiding under the table, my whole body shut tight, hoping you wouldn’t see me

searching for just a stupid rubber ball.

That ball was the end of me and my clouded eyes that didn’t really see anything at all.
I was blind and yet when I saw you I was blinded more than I ever thought possible, a crouching baby beast feels such electricity in the air and just knows that it’s wrong.

And did you put this wrongness into me too?
What on god’s earth did I inherit:

brown eyes like my mother, brown eyes like my father

and the passion of both enough to split a thousand knuckles wide open.

Beginning to Read “The Passion According to G.H.”

Yesterday I went out with a woman I met on Tinder several months ago. She’s so smart, and we have this weird connection that I don’t really understand. I like her a lot, but she seems to be plagued by this desperation about other people; she cannot bear to connect with people who are hurtful, who do not sense the world in the way she does. She told me that she used to explain away people’s flaws and their mistakes with the mosaic of issues they had experienced in their lives, but now she doesn’t seem able to do this anymore, and that loss seems to totally consume her.

I know it’s not my job to do so, but I really don’t know if I can repair this.

Another friend is struggling inside her mind too; she feels so lonely, so isolated in this knowledge that we are all ultimately alone and that everyone dies and ceases to be. This terror of losing herself, of no longer existing, seems to cover her like a thick blanket. Every time we drink a little too much, she hugs me so tight and tells me that she’s scared. I adore her; when she talks like this I just want to hold her and tell her that everything will be okay.

They both live with these questions inside themselves, and I’m painfully aware that I don’t have the answers.

I began reading The Passion According to G.H. yesterday as well, and it feels like sometimes things in my life are flowing in tandem. As if the air just knows exactly what needs to happen for my brain to organise the fluttering thoughts of other people, to help me understand these parts of them.

Some quotes:

“How could I explain that my greatest fear is precisely of: being? and yet there is no other way. How can I explain that my greatest fear is living whatever comes?”

“Will I need the courage to use an unprotected heart and keep talking to the nothing and the no one? as a child thinks about the nothing. And run the risk of being crushed by chance.”

“For now I am inventing your presence, just as one day I won’t know how to risk dying alone, dying is the greatest risk of all, I won’t know how to enter death and take the first step into the first absence of me—just as in this last and so primary hour I shall invent your unknown presence and with you shall begin to die until I learn all by myself not to exist, and then I shall let you go.”

Destroy Me

I can see it happening, barrelling into my life like a freight train, a train I’ve ridden far too many times and jumped off far too many times to count.

I read you and I hear you and I feel you and I taste this pulling, dragging desire, bubbling up inside my chest, a hot pink thick soup of fear tinged with longing, cursing and calling as if all these oceans aren’t too far for you to hear me.

Every tiny word that sprouts from you is lightning in my veins, just a thrill please one more, I’ll take it if you want to give it.

I want it, all of it, all of you. I haven’t even touched your skin or heard your voice, but I know it in my bones that if you said so I would get on a boat tomorrow and sail into the moon just to eat ice cream with you and let it drip onto my body, you can lick it off and wash me with your tongue. It’s too much, I’m always too much, this feeling is too much, but it’s in me and you know I can’t push down lava, eventually it always explodes.

I can see this other me, this me that didn’t leave, this me that comes home, this me that feels the magnetism of another person more strongly than I can possibly explain, this me who wants just to try it, just to taste it, to feel all my senses alive in your bedroom.

But how can I say these words to you, you with all your strength. You could break me, shatter me into a million pieces, and do whatever you wanted. And the worst part is, I would let you.