The Active Side Of Infinity | Víctor M. Alonso [‘the Active Side Of Infinity’ Is A Book By Carlos

“Lips of honey, eyes of fire.”

— Meleager, tr. by Peter Whigham, from Greek Anthology; “Epigrams,”

mustafa and I broke up today. My blue eyed boy is no longer mine. I expected tears to pour out of me, the ground to tear open, the sun to swallow herself with grief. but there is nothing. I feel nothing. he wasn’t the angel I thought he was, this picture perfect boy with a smile like gold. he was just a boy. screwed up and scared and flawed through and through.

said to me my body kept me with him. that passion overcame him and that’s he’s just a man. just a man. how could i expect him to be anything more. said to me the light in my eyes meant nothing to him. said he doesn’t see the point in staying. I felt the breath catch in my throat as we said goodbye at the edge of the river.

blue eyed boy. stay safe too.

[Softly but with a lot of feeling] fuck

womanhood is so divine. the world attempting to desecrate and compartmentalise it only makes me realise how holy my body is. every scar and curve and pore and hair. there is genesis between my legs. godliness. life that brings life. how dare you attempt to spit upon scripture. how dare you attempt to destroy something you can’t touch.

Men hold up a baby saved from a pile of rubble. Damascus, Syria, 2014

Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous: A Novel | The Shape of Water, dir. Guillero del Toro | F.K.A. Twigs, ‘Water Me’ | Alejandra Pizarnik, ‘To a Poem About Water, By Silvina Ocampo’ | Camille Mariet, Sharing a bubble bath on a rainy day | Ilya Kaminsky, ‘When the Child Sleeps, Sonya Undresses’

when I tell you that you make me feel safe, it means something. I’m saying that you make me feel like a flower in a garden and I’ve spent my whole life feeling like a weed growing out of concrete. I’m saying that I love you so much that I’ll let you witness my wounds up close, under the harsh light. exposed, raw...but isn’t love being vulnerable in front of you and knowing that you still love me. you still love me. you still love me. wounds, flaws and all.

sunshine lover. body shaped like the word devour and I’m hungry, so hungry. sunshine lover. come lay in the garrets of my heart. let me kiss your wrists. let me love you. let me take all of you for myself. won’t you come linger, love?

winter lover. I’ll never be your snow covered sweetheart, wrapped up in a white sheet. you’ve devoured every aching corner of my heart. winter lover. all my poetry and writing is yours, though I didn’t want them to be. winter lover. cut my wrists. staple them to a cross. I am nothing more than yours.

types of people: film genres

film noir: wears a lot of black, has a constant air of mystery, effortlessly sultry, prefers to be alone, doesn’t even write down their secrets, probably the smartest person you know

screwball comedy: clumsy, quick-witted, has an infectious laugh, not afraid of being embarrassed, a lot of self-deprecating jokes, fit and energetic, some communication issues

science fiction: has a vast and varied collection of books, seeks out one-of-a-kind works of art, stays up late, keeps a lot of notes, openly talks about social issues, surprisingly existential

horror: wears jewel tones, constantly aching for october, reads gothic literature, prefers gloomy weather, not squeamish, intrigued by spooky stories, a night person

fantasy: decorates with fairy lights, puts flowers in their hair, has a sweet tooth, wears blankets as capes, spends way too much on scented candles, frequently watches disney movies, believes in magic/wishes it were real

musical: wears lots of different colors, sings in the shower, cheerful and friendly, twirls a lot, loves to be with people and play games, doesn’t mind being the center of attention, prefers being out of the house

period drama: a romantic soul, loves lace and satin, goes on picnics, enjoys the ritual of makeup and skincare, fascinated by old fashion trends, owns more than one book of poetry, goes antique shopping

summer in the city drenches everything in this unbearable sticky heat,

I am here in bed,

thinking about my blue eyed boy:

the sunlight washing over anything,

a daydream in reality,

all this harshness dipped in gold.

isn’t life just misery. and mortality. and suffering.

isn’t this mangled body so tired of dragging itself forward,

waiting for the next trauma to almost-cripple it.

but like the sunlight my blue eyed boy pours his warmth over everything,

my own pocket of the galaxy,

and his sun rays touch me like nothing else has ever touched me before.

summer sticks to him,

summer sticks to me.

and all this sweaty passion is

so strong I feel it from the other side of the universe.