People never talk about the pain of requited love. I remember loneliness always as an exquisite relief after the loss of a lover, I remember thinking, this could kill me but still is better than going back there. I can learn to live here, above the ground. I can teach myself to dull the ache of empty.
Being full drives me now to madness. I am awash with.
I am a monster, ravaging his inside walls. He is a her. She. Me.
Becoming from the royal we, we are a tangle of curses muttered into the hot, fast night. Indiana sleeps and reads and eats beside me in the sticky heat. I tell him I want to tear his hair out, to rend the taut skin of his back into strips, to dig my fingernails between his ribs, deep into his sinews- anything to make tangible my insides’ scream, the grossness of the acute.
He grows hard ———————————— as does living.
Love is a life sentence to being with when reality makes you most often without. Daily life is a faux-casual exercise in separation anxiety.
I am a pulp, surprised there is anything left in my chest to beat.
I have moved slowly into sobbing, streaming with tears to bear the intensity. I have never needed someone so badly. I have never understood how to make that need true.
Every Sunday evening bring us into ripeness towards each carefully-full moon. Then I am bleeding all over and into your hands. We are collapsing into hysteria.
We are coaxing like unripe fruit over a slow, steady flame. We are not and never are again abused.
This does not mean what you thought it would.