I want a love that will breathe life back into my sleeping viscera. I want a love that crushes my past half-lives into a fine dust, a love that obliterates the crumpled strung out papery cutouts, a love that scribbles the last word and seals the letter. I want a love that will change me, alter me, add to me; spin new neural networks in my brain matter like shiny silver webs. I want a love that will make the word itself feel heavy, oversaturated with a strange, exhilarating weight.
No, I don’t want to be reasonable. I don’t want to make the “responsible choice” — I know you’re not it but you’re what I want. I want you because I can’t chart you, because I don’t want to chart you, because even if I did I wouldn’t know how. I don’t want to schedule time with you. I don’t want to schedule life with you. I don’t want to fit you into my surroundings like a piece of furniture. You have too many sharp edges.
You scare the shit out of me and I like it that way.
Transform me. Peel off the graffitied scrap canvas and expose the vulnerable untouchable layer, let me become something unblemished and clean underneath you; brush off my fragile wrappings onto the cold floor and brand your mutable colors into my skin. Hold me tightly for a moment. I don’t want to know better, everyone always knows better and that’s how they forget how to feel.
I want a love that blots out the time of day.
I want a love that squeezes my heart taut in an unyielding rope corset, a love that froths and raises the blood into an angry crimson blue and pushes down the liquid until it overflows. I want to get lost in the worn map of your skin; I want to run my lips over each one of your crazily-multiplying cells and feel them crackle with electricity against my tongue. I want your heartbeat to fill my ears, deep and resounding like the ocean, rippling through my gray matter in elastic organic waves, your breath expanding in the ether, seeping into the empty red chambers of my lungs and pushing out the negative space.
No one loves like that anymore. Why.
Maybe they do. Maybe there are people who only know how to love this way.
I want a love that splinters the interconnected fibers, leaves me dizzy and aching and staggering blindly away from the crash.
But not for long, I’ll put my drink down and turn the lights on. I’ll wash out my glass in the sink and only want neat love, love that behaves itself, love that doesn’t make you exert yourself. I’ll load another basket of clothes into the washer or absently chew a carrot, wanting a love that won’t make me sweat.
Sometimes I want reasonable love.
And sometimes I want to get whiplash and never recover. Sometimes I want a love that covers me, consumes me, squeezes insistent against my aorta and temporal lobe; a blinding chemical supernova that rises and blossoms and burns in my arms.
I want a dream love, a vivid dimensional aria as sharp and intangible as the heady vanishing scent of night orchids; a love the shape of luminous tear-shaped white hot glass before I wake up to the harsh daylight disoriented and spacey, arms full of vapor, smelling of ash and sulphur.