.... is a stupid question. How much time, how much pain and how much passion? Feeling is only disbelieving, and your denial is synonymous with forgotten memories I suspect you wish to abandon, and makes me think that leaving (always leaving) is my only choice. What am I doing with these strangulating hands, mistaking anger for desire? In my mind it has always been time immemorial, her raging, clawing hands against the most well-loved body, her love / her life / her unbecoming that I did not know I would inherit until I could see for myself all too clearly that her satisfaction is the only familiar expression I can respond to your affections.
I know you think that her version of love– the love for sadness – was madness; I need to see you cry before I believe you and I am selfish as I run the jagged edge of a glass plate over my arms to see the veins pop so help me cosmic universe, lie to me and tell me the truth and destroy me in every way possible so I cannot tell the difference between reality and imagination.
Punishment: I grow inwards, I become her in every way just to make you feel the guilt that I feel, and I am terrible in my ways but remember now I suffer in the same exact way as I become the depths of her contours, her raw and rugged distaste for certain colours, and her organs that swell up every time I see you in the morning light when it rains. There is only one thing you should know: it is the same for me as it is for her, and this is my punishment, ad infinitum.
Between forgiving and forgetting /
still yours, my love