You who see me and say
she is this and this,
and I can contain her within my day,
I am not for you.
Even in my softest moments I am not like that.
I demand atrocious summers,
the glistening throats of youth,
darkened by my heat, and a pyre of impossibilities.
You are like the one who,
on seeing an empress with her dazzling entourage,
bends down on one knee,
and promises conquests in her name.
You lover of lights, of worlds, my suitors are few.
I disdain your hunger for victories,
for to conquer is to set limits,
to choose just one, cruelty or tenderness.
But what if both were to contradict
your wounded mouth?
What would love be to you then,
a black-blue devouring moth?
Do you really want its desolation
as much as its laughter?