I Cannot Do It Anymore. I Cannot Open My Heart To The Darkness Of The World. What Hurts More Than Anything

I cannot do it anymore. I cannot open my heart to the darkness of the world. What hurts more than anything is that I know this is not true. I know that I will. I will let someone see my soul again. I will lay myself out bare for them to see. They will rip me apart. It will hurt bad. I will bleed all over. I know all of this. I wish I meant it when I say I cannot do it again. I wish I could abstain. I wish I was not so hungry. But I am starving, and I must eat.

Every single month I am like “wow why am I going insane? I actually want to k*ll myself. I cannot be alive. I cannot do anything. I am the loneliest person in the entire universe.” And then I look at my tracker and it’s like “period in 1 day”

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.

boygenius on Saturday Night Live 11.11.23

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.