This is how I will kiss you.
Open mouth, hands in your hair.
Bitten lips, all raw and crimson-stained.
I will never forget you, baby.
I will never get these bloodstains off my skin.
This is how I will love you.
I will make you fall for me so quickly you barely even register it.
I will hold you so close that you forget how to say anything except for my name.
Don’t be afraid, darling.
I was born for this.
This is how I will end it all.
I will barely have to kill you,
you’ll be so ready to die for me.
I will curl my hands around your throat and you’ll thank me for it.
I will drown you and it will feel like praying.
I will. I will. I will.
These are both threats and promises.
This is how you will finally drift away.
This is how I will sing you to sleep.
What is art? A declaration of love: the consciousness of our dependence on each other. A confession. An unconscious act that nonetheless reflects the true meaning of life—love and sacrifice.
I wanted you bare-breasted, snakes in your hands. I wanted you leaping and somersaulting the back of bulls. I wanted you swallowing raw hearts and rattling volcanic ash.
Clocks slay time. Time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life.