A PanAfricanist Queer Womanist Collective
I would marry you if I wasn’t already in love with your words. Now, it would be hard to distinguish you from your words and then I’d constantly fear what would happen to you and me if you ever ran out of words or were too tired to write for me, about me and about us.
I would marry you so I can see you wake next to me every morning, just to say I, once upon a time, was woken by the rays of the sun that came radiating through the corners of your eyes and be sanctified with your “awful” morning breath that wouldn’t be so awful anymore when you are mad at me and aren’t talking to me because of my love for other women, sometimes. I obliviously carry the spirit of Jezebel within me and inadvertently err with my lustrous every wandering eye so pardon me for my gluttony. I command you to prune me to your liking, to the greatness of heart-lead me.
I would marry you if I wasn’t already in love with your words. I’d tell you how I fell in love with your rhymes and haiku’s and how I yearn to be your fountain of inspiration, just a word or two in your poetic hymns, living inside your mind, the ink mothering every scribble, an inhabitant to your dwelling of creativity, what a patriot I’d become.
I would marry you so I can tell you that you are beautiful in instances when you feel your worst and kiss away the traces of your pain from your countenance. I’d tell you how much your words healed me way before you met me, I’d tell you how I played your voice like a record over and over in my head before you could even hear the sound of my voice. I’d tell you how the world stops when you speak so you can know your worth. I’d tell you how the world worships your very existence when you feel unwanted.
I would marry you if I wasn’t already in love with your words. I’d scribble my affection all over your body just like those tattoos you elegantly wear and adorn you with piercing attention so you never feel the solitude of your world. I’d assure your immortality so we can bask in never ending pillow talks after our sexual debates as we mend the broken limbs from the wilderness. After every intimate communion, the scars on your body would make known the tales of how I worshipped the tone of your voice wrapped in moans translating pleasure, those intimate narrations of your soul. Your speech would be cluttered with words of how your spirit travelled every corner of paradise owing to my caress, how you tapped out of Devil’s Cradle sprinting to my rescue so you can tan in the pleasures of my embrace and you would debut to the world the pages as you jotted them out from my womanhood.
I would marry you if I wasn’t already in love with your words and I’d be the light to your journey to every cigarette as I breathe in every part of your soul that you breathe out. I’d sail away with you to every piece of my mind just to show you that it’s okay to be broken. I’d let you surf the depths of my fears just to show you that I too cry at night. I’d let you nail me in anger ,as you rebuke me for all my sins, just so you can save me as if you were my saviour and I’d resurrect to the power of your warmth.
© GayKindaLove 2012-10-18