You Tear My Face Open
and scream hope into my mouth.
Blood. Salt. Dawn.
A lungful after drowning.
The taste of sunrise.
Claws at my throat from my inside.
How do I hold something this alive
without devouring it?
You see me soft.
Because I kiss like surrender.
No.
This is combustion.
My love has teeth.
Howls at the moon. Howls inside. Howls at you.
Wants to chew through this cage of my flesh.
The air is inside out.
Feverishly, ferally humming.
I want to name it, bite it, bleed into it, let it unmake me…
…is this how the forest feels when
fire first touches root?
Terrified.
But wildly, impossibly alive?
Maybe we are making a promise.
Or maybe a prophecy.
The gods must have known what they were doing –
sending someone who carries steadiness the way salt carries light.
In your presence I hear my storm negotiating with itself.
You are an invasion.
Dragging me upright by my throat.
Whispering live but demanding break open.
By your hands I see tenderness can maul.
You tear my face open
and scream hope into my mouth
this time
I SCREAM TOO.
Anjali Notandas lives in Goa, India, works remotely as an Editorial Associate, and keeps too
many half-written drafts. Her work leans tragic and rageful, though she swears she’s fine.
She’s still negotiating peace with the fear of imperfection and failure. This is her first
published poem – a gift for her S/O. Merry Christmas, Peter.
