When Alexa Demie Said “You Think A Girl Like Me Gon Be Single For Long? You Wrong. You Think A Girl

“….” by Emily Byrnes

three cherubs oil - eduardo tojetti

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a brief primer for the hopeless days, part 2:

Rabindranath Tagore, Stray Birds (167) | Bertolt Brecht, ‘Motto’ | Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird  | Gregory Orr, Concerning the Book of the Body That Is the Beloved | Leonard Cohen, ‘Chelsea Hotel No. 2′

classycreeps

To be loved is to be eaten, ripped to the bone, skin tender and pink. A blush so bloody, my sweet killer, collaborators in each other’s demise.

To love is to attend hundreds of funerals of the person they used to be. How many did I create? How many did I kill? Have you done the same to me, my love?

To be loved is to die and to be reborn in their kiss over and over and over again, the resurrection painful as my bones rearrange to fit the mould of your body.

To love is to kill, heart in your hands and safety in your mouth. I am the funeral pyre and you are the onlooker, crying tears of grief but warmed by the flames. I burn to keep you safe, lover.

To be loved is to consume, gag, swallow everything whole, the sugar too sickly sweet, body unused to softness like this.

To love is to scream, is to lose in this battle for two, is to be vulnerable and hopeful and innocent and lost and found. A paradigm of desperate emotions.

To be loved is to kiss and suffocate but not pull away, no, never pull away.

“Nemesis inhabited a dark paradise of her own making. She never held back. I loved her for her frightful hatred, her frightful love. I admired her stunning passion for revenge; the mercilessness in her eyes.”

— Lola Ridge, from To the Many; Collected Poems of Lola Ridge; “Hellish,”

“you’re like an angel, nothing touches you.”

— Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov