I’m Going Under | heartache
Love can be a plastic bag or a chocolate wrapper or a sweaty hand.
Love can be a plastic bag or a chocolate wrapper or a sweaty hand.
Love is a thing that crawls on many legs, and looks from many eyes.
When did people first start loving?
So it goes that Dionysus the wine god created the grapevine out of a haemorrhaging wound. In the depths of Arcadia where the wild things are, that pagan god led his followers in endless feasting.
Until one of the bacchants dropped her wineglass and embraced her companions in a frenzy. And Dionysus watched them as they tussled on the ground and exclaimed: “Ekstasis!” Ecstasy.
To love is to stand outside of yourself: to view your eyes with your eyes. It is a roar and a beckon all in one: taste me, drink me, make me immortal with a kiss.
Love is a pair of jittering wings.
Love can be an egg or a mausoleum or a single sandal.
Love does not hesitate.
On cool nights in Arcadia, love was shared. Every bacchant offered their libation to the Roaring One. Liquid love passed from glass to glass — lips to lips. Those who failed, would be ripped apart in the torchlight.
Not to love was in itself a madness.
But don’t we all agree, that violent love is not love at all?
Love can be a tissue or a chisel or a mousetrap.
Love can acquiesce.
Love is a whisper and a scream.
Taste me. Drink me. Make me immortal with a kiss.
Love can be an albacore or a gavel or a ballistic missile.
Love is a cocoon.
I am kneeling at your feet. I am unravelling like a bleeding wound.
I am crying out to you. My neck is arching and I close my eyes. I am going under. I am going under. I am going under.
Love can be an overthrown rampart. The ledge where Icarus looked down at the wine-dark sea. The battlements at Troy where Hector kissed his baby boy. The spire of the Eiffel Tower.
Love can be a bottle half-empty or a snippet of code.
Love is a pair of jittering wings.
Love is a whisper and a roar.
Love is a biological machination.
Consume me.
My heart — why does it hurt so much for someone I barely even know?
