Hysterical letters to my sanity

Written on the body

I must give credit to Jeanette Winterson, who wrote "in the heat of her hands I thought, This is the campfire that mocks the sun" in her book Written on the body. That inspired this poem.

Your love is grandeur, it might be grotesque in nature.
A sick little thing. A flame that mocks the sun in agony and pure bliss. Can those two exist inextricably?
Many things can be true that seem not.
Elliot smith drowns on from your phone and this sad look comes across your face, I find it hilarious and laugh, a big boisterous laugh that shakes my ribs. You're angry with me, I'm belittling you. Casting stones from my own glass green house of horror. My little shop of horrors if anything.
"Seymour darling, forgive me"
Yearning, begging, wallowing away, it's all just moments to fiddle with later in old age. But in that moment it is truly a burning passion, an archaic god who demands a flesh sacrifice and still has no answers for you.
A flame that mocks the sun.