On Romance | Dear X

In a recent conversation with Rosie x Royale and Mistress Cleo Ouyang, I made a distinction: I am violently romantic. My romance wears the sheepish skin of violence, but always in pursuit of love. Here lies my empathy for the Big Bad Wolf; perhaps all he was looking for was love, perhaps love had been demonstrated as an obsessive consumption his whole life. I can relate.

My romance indulges me in many forms. Romance is a crashing, an uncontrollable impact; romance is a meticulous doing and undoing; romance is the ritual of making you for myself; romance is your soft yielding; romance is the unceding squeezing of desire, until it runs like a bloody pulp down my arm;
Romance is a monstrous deliverance unto paradise.

Dear X,
I am nothing but a Cherub: a beautiful, innocent looking monster, a messenger of divine and romantic catastrophe. You do not have to pretend that at least for the hours that I spend on top of you, I am not in love with you. I hope you find evidence of my romance in the way that I bend you, wound you, drown you, refuse to be anywhere but inside of you. Perhaps we haven't met yet but I miss you already. I apologize in advance for the breathless and violent ways I will make you mine.