An Appeal

“A man’s love is so tragic, he loses exactly what he loves the most” Albert Camus.

Last night I couldn’t bear the weight of your body. You were heavier than ever before, like a cotton blanket drenched in water. Your arms and legs held the burden of a hundred years , your heart beat slow and loud and your breath, too, was heavy, as if you had seen infinity in the breadth of a dream.

You overwhelm me, still, with your fits of kindness and your bouts of rage. I have no defence against your madness. You’ve turned me into the culprit, the smooth criminal who slays at will, Judas who betrayed with a kiss.

I’m only here to love you, to soften your antique heart that’s hardened through years of misuse. I’m here to strengthen your muscles, to thin your blood, to lighten your body and guide you into ecstasy.

Let me unravel you, unfurl you bit by bit, layer by layer till I arrive at your core. Let me nurse your open wounds. Let me cure you with my secret recipe for hunger and desire. Let me fill you that dangerous longing for excess.

Let me save you from yourself.

Statement of Purpose

I write that I may remember.

I write that I may forget…all your petty grievances, your empty anger, your lopsided temper and your foul, random moods.

I write that I may remind myself of your basic goodness, your innocence, your wounded, fragile self.

I write to chronicle my passion, to record your histrionics, to document  my profound insights about your body,  its secret chambers and its embellishments  (that shade of  indigo you wore last night or the way the light shone upon your skin while you lay dreaming in ‘technicolour’ right before your symphony of snores, as we sought refuge from summer heat through fan blades and eucalyptus leaves).

I write that I may conquer you, that I may no longer hunger for the slight touch of your feet against mine or for your arm to stride across my breasts while I’m asleep, soaked in sweat and dreams, that I may no longer be dismantled when you stare at me across a crowded room or offer me a quick drag of your rolled cigarette or when you hover around the periphery of my cunt, teasing my appetite, upsetting my calm, my quiet ease.

I write because I am helpless against you and your thirst for life, your delight in all that moves and breathes, combusts and seethes with a force unrivalled by your own,  your propensity for laughter, your mystical soul.

I write to conjure you, to mould you into shape and form, trim you down to size…

I write because I have no choice in the matter, no say in how I must feel or think or act, because you seduce me with your wide-eyed wonder and your understanding of loss.

You reduce me to silence!

I write  to cure this disease, this unbridled obsession with love and lust and all the holy madness that inflames your beastly heart.

I write, aware that everything I say or won’t can and will be used against me.

I write, knowing that nothing I write will inspire you to love me, that my words lack lustre and can never incite your passion or your curiousity.

I write in spite of me.

The New Testament

Have you heard? Have you heard the news? My womb is swollen with child. It’s only a matter of time till I unravel, till my water breaks and the birthing begins. I’m pregnant, ripe, fertile. My face has a peculiar glow.  I’m eating for two. It’s beginning to show. Its been three months now, just a few more left to go.

Everywhere I roam, on buses, trains or planes, they make space for me, they tell me what to do in cases of emergency. They can smell the words spewing from my body, they can sense the mystery, this odd mixture of irony and metaphor, poetry and prose.

Will you stand by and watch while I dilate? While I sweat and bleed, while I shout out loud so the whole world hears of my labour pains?

I am a leap of faith.

Can you put all doubt to rest and believe in me? Can you quell your suspicions and learn to love my core? Can you cease all your clever reasoning and your constant need for logic and put your trust in my fluttering, irrational heart?

I, too, can work miracles. I, too, can still the waters, multiply fish and loaves, transform bread and wine to flesh and blood.

Come smell me. Come watch me burn. I promise to intoxicate, inebriate… woo you with my flames.