I wonder, most times, if I’m the kind of woman you’d fuck without first taking off all your clothes.
If you’d fuck me, even though you wouldn’t kiss me full on the mouth.
If I’m that woman you’d call late at night – when you’re drunk or desperate or both.
When there isn’t anyone else.
Even if you don’t love me.
Even after you’ve said as much.
And what makes me that way?
The late night faceless conduit to satisfaction rather than the emotional or intellectual bridge to the same.
There has to be someone out there who will not define me and my worth only by my sexuality.
And so I say ...
To love you feels like the remembered scent of lilacs.
The sickening sweet aroma that burns the nose.
The back of the throat.
Something that evokes a sneeze.
Like the sun after times of darkness. Your voice – a vessel of madness, that flicks the tongue and curls the toes.
Words like magic spells that cut me down to size, hold me prisoner within the gap between your teeth, weaving imaginary realities about the way it might feel to love you.
Like the remembered taste of desire. Caught like a cold.A mistaken temporary ache in the bones.
To love you feels like a choice I couldn’t make.
A failed attempt to obliterate a memory.
"The story one has to tell won't be anything important.
So one can just as well write it down. Take the edge off this incurable propensity for writing, simply by giving in to it without taking it seriously. If the trick works, one is saved for the time being. I close my eyes and what do I see in my mind? Nothing important, as I said, and you can tell it's not important because it comes of its own accord, effortlessly, without being forced, no pattern, no significance. A page is torn from a notebook; once again the work schedule isn't followed and you make no progress in the grammar book. A few titles scribbled down, tentatively, as they come, something already worked out in the head, as it turns out, little stories, for later. When, if not now?" -- The Quest for Christa T., Christa Wolf