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Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things

#the with

V. He tastes like gardens smell. Pollen sticky pistol on my lips like granules of sugar falling falling falling sands, time is glimmering for days He cries out so loud and neither of us care that there's a merchant one tent over listening to everything we say. I am coated in the seed of flowers, pollinated, ready to germinate, to bloom in the silken folds of his petals. VI. History has a funny way of repeating itself. He's beautiful in all the ways I can never be, and I am uncertain if I want him or if I want to tear him down. If I want to tear him down or tear him apart. If I want him in pieces, fractured shards of shattered glass spitting jagged images Broken mirrors can be put back together, she said. But you can still see the cracks in the reflection, I answered. You'll never get past this if you keep thinking like that, she said. And I shrugged, because she had no idea that there was no returning from how far I'd gone by then. VII. Why don’t you, then, dear Jacovaea, bring him to you now? Because I'm afraid if I reached out to him, he would come, and I would be eclipsed by his pale moon face and his mantis eyes and I would fall to my knees to beg forgiveness for ever trying to dominate him. Forgive me forgive me forgive me forgive me the need to be inside you keeps me awake at night. I only want to wear your skin for a moment. VIII. Fireflies. Embers. In this darkness there is no difference. Both hot. Both fluttering. Both churning in my belly with the need to light up the night. My fingers twitching over the oil lamp. He tastes like gardens smell and I bet he would burn just as nicely as the last one did.

#the withered #jaco blog

I. Why then, when I’ve said it so many times to so many others in my life, could I not say it to her?Because with her, I meant it.And now?Now? Now she doesn’t even exist to me.Except in flashes of color her memory flutters behind my eyes like delicate butterfly wings. Whispers of when beauty came on the winds of awe, when I could lie back in the grass and stare into the great heights and feel the wonders of living sewn into my roots.Every time I hear a disturbed set of chimes giggling in the breeze her quiet promises trickle down my spine. Like rain drops, like her fingertips dancing along my skin.Sunlight tests my resolve and my patience.I lost her.I left her.How can I love hate her so much. Behind a curtain of fire. Under the veil of night. In a room full of flowers where she plants her grief. In a mirror where she paints on her masks. Why don’t you, then, dear Jacovaea, bring her to you now? Because if I reached out to her now, I -- II. Plunge in the knife and pull out a bead. A cherry. A plum. A pomegranate seed. Put that in your mouth. Bite down. Bullets between your teeth. Vermilion chin. Where did all of those stains on your heart come from? III. -- don't know if she's pulling him back to her. She's buried so deep in there no amount of flagellation can get her out. She's a fucking nightmare daydream Mother, why couldn't you hold onto him tighter? IV. I want to lick the insides of your everything. You're a glimmer of sunlight (tests my resolve and patience) through the forest canopy. All sweetness and so full of sweetness. Everything sweetness. I could tap into that sweetness. Bathe in the glory of your sweetness. Revel in your sweetness. Sticky sticky honeypot.I bet you would taste wonderful poured over a pancake.

#the withered #jaco blog