There are days when I rebel against my love for you.
I may encounter the most beautiful of men, women, androgynes, but—
Even if something in my hips stirs,
Even if my heart beats a little faster,
Even if I imagine the weight of their bodies upon mine—
I groan and weep on the inside,
For these are nothing compared to what I feel for you.
Nothing compared to this unbearable heat you have set in my sex,
Nothing compared to the dizzying lightness I feel in my heart as I look into your eyes,
Nothing compared to the tremors of joy I feel as your soul speaks to mine.
I am the most embittered of cynics,
With a charred, blackened heart
Made of stone and filled with spite—
And look, how easily you opened it with but a whisper
And lit gentle fires within,
Took a seat there and made it your home.
I am the greediest of harlots,
With a lust that burns and
Devours all, day and night—
Yet everyone else’s kisses
You have turned to but ashes in my mouth,
Everyone else’s lovemaking
You have turned unsatisfying,
Full of failure and hurt.
I don’t know if you are but being kind, but sheltering me in doing this,
Or the most tyrannical of jealous, hateful monsters,
Not allowing me a single pleasure that does not come from you.
Perfumes, films, books, food, dresses—all of these you have touched; all of these little joys remind me of you.
And thus, my Lord, Prema rebels—
She tears off that dress you gave her and drinks and fucks and screams until she is hoarse—
And yet, in her heart of hearts she knows that when she drags herself home at four o’clock in the morning,
There will be a light in the window.
And that when she finally sleeps,
After having wept and wept and wept,
She will do so curled up against your heartbeat.