Lover, I Know I’m Such An Excessive Woman. I Bleed So Many Emotions, Each As Destructive As The Last.

HUNTER SCHAFER for Givenchy at Paris Fashion Week 2019

he dreams of wide eyes and rainbow skies, his blonde hair fanned out against the pillow like a crown of gold. my angel, my Icarus, my blue-eyed lover. what must I do to make you stay? how hard must I wish to meet those eyes in the morning?

midnight, baby. I’ll meet you tonight in our dreams. I’ll meet you in the garrets of a fairy palace. I’ll meet you in a field of daisies, a cave of diamonds. I’ll meet you in the nightmares and the dreams. I’ll meet you in the in between.

sleepy eyed lover, with you’re soft hands and marshmallow heart. Aren’t you’re the most beautiful thing this mangled body ever loved.

“I used to dislike being sensitive. I thought it made me weak. But take away that single trait, and you take away the very essence of who I am. You take away my conscience, my ability to empathize, my intuition, my creativity, my deep appreciation for the little things, my vivid inner life, my deep awareness of others’ pain, and my passion for it all.”

— (via purplebuddhaquotes)

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.

I love him, more than he knows. I’m waiting for him to come back from the farmers market with flour and bread and rum and peaches. Two hands wrapped around a mug, sipping strong coffee and sitting on the kitchen counter, evening sunlight washing everything in gold and honey and mauve. Please, leave your shoes at the door and shout that you’re home. Please, one more kiss before we turn the kitchen light off.

I love him, more than my mouth could ever admit. He sits in bed, blanket draped across his chest as he watches anime. He’s forgotten his glasses so he squints. I laugh. He calls me “my love” in our mother tongue and kisses my neck, telling me I smell of honey and coffee. Please, linger on my body for a little while longer. Please, keep your palms around my waist till I tell you it’s getting too late.

I love him in words that don’t fit comfortably in my mouth. Softness has never been my first language. Usually romantic jargon sits awkwardly in my throat but god, does it spill like glossy honey when I think of him. God, does it turn sour into sweet, bronze into gold. The soft glow of the lamp illuminates his face whilst he sleeps. He breathes softly and sighs, murmurs for me to please come to bed.

honey, you’re the sweetest thing.

hid my heart in the soil, waiting for it to bloom. I’m so tired of tending to it, so tired of watching and waiting for it to grow.

a little love, wash with tears, leave in the sunshine. repeat.

there’ll be a day where all this doesn’t hurt anymore. there’ll be a day where I bloom all the way.

I write so much about ugly past relationships but you, you were something entirely different. what role I did I play in our pathetic little love scene, honey? was I the main love interest, or just an extra in your miserable play?

all those bus rides at night, sharing earphones and listening to pop punk, my head on your shoulder whilst I ignored the missed calls from my parents. it was so naive, all of it. so empty. the fairytale with a thousand plot holes: the unavailable prince, midnight but still in tattered boots and ripped jeans, no fireworks, no true love’s kiss. just pain. just so much pain.

you were so shallow and insincere, talking about some girl whilst your hand was on my knee. kissing me in the back so your friends wouldn’t see, saying that she was boring and I was just, so different. I knew it was just a line, a lie, but god, was I willing to play the role of the girl who’d change you.

all those nights spent holding your hair back as you threw up vodka and pills. all those days spent lying in the sun as you came down, trying to convince you that life was worth living. all those aching, violent emotions and clenched fists. no softness. a love like sandpaper, a love like drowning, a love like violence.

tousling my hair and spinning like a ballerina, dizzy and worn out but used to the merry go round. a puppet to play with when you grew bored. your manic pixie dream girl, directing your love story. your manic pixie dream girl, teaching you how to live. your manic pixie dream girl, banished from your life as soon as you didn’t need her.

you laugh and holy hell, I can’t stop staring. the way you throw your head back, teeth flashing like small breaks of sunshine through leaves. it makes me feel as if I’m witnessing something holy. your neck tilted like Michaelangelo’s David as you laugh and laugh and laugh, the happiness spilling out from the deepest part of you. my breath caught in my throat, stunned. you looked beautiful. god, so beautiful. blonde hair, green eyes, blushing cheeks. the poet in me smiled softly, knowing she’d found a new muse, knowing she’d happily let you destroy her. perhaps this is how Icarus felt, flying too close to the sun, knowing he’d burn and happily accepting his fate in exchange for a couple of fleeting moments near god.

I loved you and then I didn’t and then I realised how wrong we were. I realised that your hands had not been welcome here and that even when I locked the door, you found a way to kick it open. I loved you and then I didn’t and then I realised I never knew what love was. all those terrifying memories that still feel too close and raw. memories that don’t feel like they belong to me. my therapist calls it abuse and I still don’t know if it actually was or if I’m just crazy and emotional like you said I was. I loved you and then I didn’t and then I was too sad to remember that my body isn’t a graveyard and things will be okay and I’ll never forget you or the things you did but I will move on. all those mornings spent in tears, the heart palpitations that were too urgent to feel like butterflies. your knuckles and the dark and then blinding light and then I have to explain away the bruises again to my mother. I loved you and you said you did too but you don’t hurt the ones you love. you don’t hurt the ones you love. I still loved you even when you did and I still don’t know if it was my fault or not.

for someone that feels empty a lot of the time, I’m sure able to give and give and give. it’s my nastiest and most damaging habit. maybe that’s why I have such a fascination with sandcastles and other temporary things, the way I commit all my time to a couple of fleeting moments. strange that I can always feel the storm before it hits, the way the air sticks to my body like ghosts. don’t I lose love like eyelashes. don’t I hold love like a hoarder. this little light lady is all smoke and no flame.