somebody posted this on a site i'm on
and i'll tell ya, the symbolism around here these days is thick enough to Eat
“The Too Much”
I
Couldn’t have been more beautiful
Than I was last night.
I couldn’t have been sexier,
Juicier,
Or more luscious.
My ass couldn’t have been bigger
Or glowed more brightly.
My teeth couldn’t have been whiter,
Skin softer,
Hair shinier.
I couldn’t have smelled any sweeter,
Been nicer,
Skinnier,
Funnier,
Or more holy.
And still I was not enough
For you.
‘Not enough,’
My friends tell me,
Will never be my issue.
They say it’s ‘the too much’
That leaves lovers like me
Strangled by our own question marks.
You see-
Some women love lightly,
Like whispers wrapped in spun sugar.
And these are the ones who make it so hard
For the blue-black molasses
Ever-lasting taffy kind of love
That overwhelms the tongue.
They make it hard for those of us who,
Due to circumstances beyond our control,
Are destined to always
Over-love with a vengeance.
We are the spell-casting blue magic witches,
Mixing menstrual fluid into barbeque sauce.
We will gather your pubic hairs under the new moon
And bottle them in our piss.
Our territory is blood and dreams,
Past lives and other states over which
You have no control.
Be warned: you will lose all control.
So if you really need to keep it,
If you can’t keep it real,
If intensity and complexity
Just ain’t your thing,
If you can’t handle the truth,
Then brethren-fuck you.
‘Cause in this house of worship
There is no room for emotions
That judge and demand regret
For our pleasure.
If forty-eight hours later was too soon
For you to be in my mouth,
Than you shouldn’t have come there.
But don’t you tell me it’s my fault.
Every way I am is divine.
I won’t feel guilty.
I just won’t be ashamed.
I will not hide this story.
My craft obligates me to tell the truth.
And, brothers, y’all need to know:
If too much sugar makes you sick,
Spoils your appetite for even the smell of dinner,
There are certain flavors of women
You should not consume.
‘Cause tasting even a little bit
Of what you know you can’t swallow
Is
Just
Disrespectful.
-Christa Bell
“The Too Much”
I
Couldn’t have been more beautiful
Than I was last night.
I couldn’t have been sexier,
Juicier,
Or more luscious.
My ass couldn’t have been bigger
Or glowed more brightly.
My teeth couldn’t have been whiter,
Skin softer,
Hair shinier.
I couldn’t have smelled any sweeter,
Been nicer,
Skinnier,
Funnier,
Or more holy.
And still I was not enough
For you.
‘Not enough,’
My friends tell me,
Will never be my issue.
They say it’s ‘the too much’
That leaves lovers like me
Strangled by our own question marks.
You see-
Some women love lightly,
Like whispers wrapped in spun sugar.
And these are the ones who make it so hard
For the blue-black molasses
Ever-lasting taffy kind of love
That overwhelms the tongue.
They make it hard for those of us who,
Due to circumstances beyond our control,
Are destined to always
Over-love with a vengeance.
We are the spell-casting blue magic witches,
Mixing menstrual fluid into barbeque sauce.
We will gather your pubic hairs under the new moon
And bottle them in our piss.
Our territory is blood and dreams,
Past lives and other states over which
You have no control.
Be warned: you will lose all control.
So if you really need to keep it,
If you can’t keep it real,
If intensity and complexity
Just ain’t your thing,
If you can’t handle the truth,
Then brethren-fuck you.
‘Cause in this house of worship
There is no room for emotions
That judge and demand regret
For our pleasure.
If forty-eight hours later was too soon
For you to be in my mouth,
Than you shouldn’t have come there.
But don’t you tell me it’s my fault.
Every way I am is divine.
I won’t feel guilty.
I just won’t be ashamed.
I will not hide this story.
My craft obligates me to tell the truth.
And, brothers, y’all need to know:
If too much sugar makes you sick,
Spoils your appetite for even the smell of dinner,
There are certain flavors of women
You should not consume.
‘Cause tasting even a little bit
Of what you know you can’t swallow
Is
Just
Disrespectful.
-Christa Bell