be my tangerine (wlw prose-poetry)
cup after cup after cup my body overflows with you, did i drink too much of you? (i'm sorry, i love you. i'm sorry i love you) this is how i imagine amniotic fluid must be, this orange glow, am i made of you now, or did i make you, and how much of you am i and how much of me are you? (remember when i ate a whole box of tangerines?)
how do we calculate, how do we count, when you're so fluid in your movements and you work with my breath like threadwork, you embroider me wholly, your sharp needles weaving in and out of my being, but decorating me by the end of it. everywhere i go, i see you, and when i see you, i see the world looking back at me and everything i know, i want to tell you and everything you tell me, i want to ingrain in my brain like my first language, i want to know you by instinct, more than a choice, and i want to love you on purpose.
i want to thank you for ruining my life (i love you) i want to tell you that if you think you're a weapon, a knife, something that pierces through, i'll be damned if i don't kiss all naked blades with your name on them, bleed my tongue and my teeth. i won't need
red lipsticks anymore.
you see, what i'm saying is, i want to carry your pretty ass home, and when you're not with me, i want to kiss the screen goodnight if it symbolises kissing your head, what i'm saying, my love, is that if you like orange flavoured candies, i'll make myself bite-sized and sugary-sweet, so you can consume me bit by bit, nibbling, giggling, lying next to me, breast to breast, bosom to bosom, your curves melting into mine, and i'll be damned if i don't combust into bright orange flames when you pass orange flavoured kisses into my mouth. fire, sweet sweet fire.
what i'm saying is, is that i want to absorb you completely, and never run out of you, write greasy cheesy love songs for you, inhale your scent (you're my tangerine), bruise my knuckles to fight for you, believe in a god just to keep repeating your name in every prayer i whisper,
and make it all religious,
your love of the starfish and the sea,
and the oranges, and maybe,
just maybe,
possibly me?
what i'm saying is, your love has the consistency of a lotion and the intensity of light,
my skin is starved of you,
will you colour my breath bright
orange
every other night?
/will you be my tangerine?/
(i'm not sorry anymore, i'm proud of loving you.)
