I find myself always needing someone to take care of me.
I’ve never asked anyone to Some try— Fail— And then I fall apart.
But it’s true. I’m not okay anymore. I’m not okay alone. So I’m clinging I’m clinging. But I would much rather cling to death. I’d rather die than feel. I was clinging to him, (I’m clinging to anyone who comes along) I hope he doesn’t mind. I don’t need him to take care of me— Love me. But I’d like him to. Like turns to love. And love turns to ash.
But I don’t want to love anymore. I don’t want to speak. I want to touch. To communicate through the skin. Kissing greeting— Lip-to-lip language— Whispering fingertips— Goose bump braille.
In death there is no skin to touch. No speech to hear. No one to take care of you. No one at all. (And that’s okay.)
No roaring of the blood Rushing to the surface of the skin When licked and blown, When heated and cooled.
I was never any good at writing—especially not fiction. The idea never quite jarred with me: the creation of something from nothing. In my head, characters were like miniature people, at times paired down to their essentials; at times, larger than real fresh and blood humans. Who am I to play God? Especially when my creations never end up as anything more than unformed. Like half a being, left to die before ever truly knowing life.
We were constantly looking for metaphors where there were none. Maybe that’s the curse of this generation; we’re taught to analyze things to their death—indulging only in their intrinsic value. Even our relationships. Especially our relationships.
“Nothing less than a fairy tale is worth pursuing.”
I want to write like other people breathe—effortlessly. I want words to spill from my fingertips like rain. I want to burn when I don’t write. I want to feel a chill up my spine when the words are exactly right. I was born with words, and I want to be buried in words.
I want you. I really do. I want to curl into the safety and familiarity of your arms; I want to kiss your lips and trace your name with your freckles; I want to breathe deeply the scent of yourself and take all of You into Me. And yet. I don’t need you. I will live. I will get on without your touch or your voice whispering into my skin. I will live.
Sometimes I need to write. It feels like a physical pressure on my fingertips—pulsing through my veins and pouring out my skin. I try to hold it inside until I reach a safe spot. Solitude, pen to paper, hands to keys, words to page.