writingsforwinter:

I am an absurdist romantic, the kind who kisses and then surfaces

with a mouthful of blood. But I have nailed my body

to so many crosses that even my own heart is no longer willing

to bear their weight. And I eat my own sadness

for dinner every night, with fork and knife, tearing it apart

like a dripping red shank of meat, down to the bone.

As you would say-my darling, I’m afraid that’s not enough.

I’ve seen men in Russia who fuck against the wall like angels,

fingers between legs between hands between teeth,

wringing out their souls

like so many tshirts on the laundry line.

Desire turns people into lunatics.

Give me the mere scent of a man and I turn into a bloodhound,

struggling to the surface like the body of a dead girl

rising from a lake, the ice cracking under the swollen weight

of her breasts, the mass of hair spilling down the neck

until I have found that man

and written his phone number down on my napkin.

I take loneliness to work every day in a brown paper bag

for lunch, then let it all out into my boss’s cubicle

when he’s not looking. I’m passionate and fiery

and I will eat you whole.

But first let me warn you that sometimes you might be

my emergency room, because I’ve already had too many

hospital visits for one year.

Don’t worry, though: the taste of your mouth

is better than Prozac any day.