But If You Bleed Long Enough, You Start To Miss The Taste Of Your Blood. You Crave The Metal In The Back

But if you bleed long enough, you start to miss the taste of your blood. You crave the metal in the back of your throat. You want it bad. You want the pain bad.

The hole is part of you. You cannot fill it. You can fill in the space around it, but you cannot fill the hole.

No, I don’t care that you’re messy and loud and sometimes annoying. I love you anyhow. Come over tonight. I will cook for you in the kitchen—it’s green tiles and the sun that peaks in through the windows. Come as you are. Leave your hair messy and your skin blank and your body cloaked in plain clothing. I find you most beautiful in that state—natural, beating, tender, alive. I will make us soup in my cleanest pot. It will be steaming and hot, but not too hot that it burns. I will love you enough for it to always keep you warm, but never in such a way that it hurts.

Love is consumption. Love devours. Love eats. The allure of someone takes up my entire life, fills in all of the empty space and clears out what was already there too. I do not see anyone, I see the object of my desire. I want, I want, I want. It takes so much out of me. Desire, for me, is enormous. It hurts. I stop breathing. My heart pumps blood more slowly. Love takes over my body like some sort of parasite. It takes and takes and takes until I am empty, dissolving into nothing.

I always think: I want too much. I crave something so real and so certain and so magical, I need more than what is offered to me. I cannot settle in this life. I need. I need. I need.

But then, I see you. Then, I think: I would be happy for a simple life. I would need nothing more than to spend a life in your arms. I would sacrifice everything for you. I would give up anything if it meant I could see you smile. And it would be enough. I am certain of it.

I shake and shake and shake. You walk next to me, body next to body. Our arms lightly brush as our arms sway at our sides. I tremble and tremble and tremble. Your hand—it’s blood-filled, tender, lovely skin— is right there. So close. So, so close. I could almost reach out and grab it. I could nearly take it in mine. I could easily fill the space between our bodies. We continue walking. I don’t do it. I restrain myself. My hand longs for yours so desperately, but I make sure to tell it no. I keep it in my pocket. It won’t cause us trouble anymore.