Make love to me in Spanish.
Not with that other tongue.
I want you juntito a mi,
tender like the language
crooned to babies.
I want to be that
lullabied, mi bien
querido, that loved.
I want you inside
the mouth of my heart,
inside the harp of my wrists,
the sweet meat of the mango,
in the gold that dangles
from my ears and neck.
Say my name. Say it.
The way it’s supposed to be said.
I want to know that I knew you
even before I knew you.
— Charlotte Eriksson, Empty Roads & Broken Bottles; in search for The Great Perhaps (via fawun)
Happy birthday Flo!! ❤️
First it’s the aichmophobia.
The metal medical
exam tables, the glass
thermometer, the plastic
sharps waste container,
they all might as well stab
me from the agonizing anxiety.
Needles and other sharp tools on
the steel tray the nurse serves to
remind me of the time I ran sprinting
out of the hospital before other doctors
had to grab and drag me back to the room.
Or the time when I had to sit for four hours
in a wrought iron hospital bed with a tube
sticking out of my arm and with stiff, coarse
cushions as my only comfort because leaving
the hospital wasn’t as great as I first thought
it would be after the remaining blood quickly
started gathering up towards my face and
Next came the emetophobia.
The heart-tantalizing experience
of trying to keep my cool because
I am now sweating and I can feel
the residuals coming up through
my throat and I am trying so hard
to swallow it all back in before…
everything—erupts and clattering
onto the sidewalk in the Walgreens
parking lot is the spilling noise of
foul liquid trickling down my leg.
The scary thing is that I’m not afraid
of the everyday risks that could possibly
kill me, like getting into a car accident.
No, I’m more frightened by my phobias.