My fingertips are addicted to the softness of the skin across his bare chest. I drink him up. The day started an hour ago, and if I don’t get up now I’ll be late to class but after the morning is over, I won’t see him for two weeks. We hold each other so close, and it is in those moments that I am engulfed by this need to find ways to come into him even closer. This possessive need feels so primal. I hate it. I feel like I’ve become everything I vowed against.
I’m in fucking love.
He’s like vaporized shisha lingering in my lungs. I’m lightheaded, drunk, nauseated. I’ve written poetry about how I was 15 when I felt this way before. But I think my memory is wrong. I’ve never felt this way before.
I want to cry.
I could lose him at any time. He could die. He could cheat again.
I feel out of control.
Love is beautiful but right now it is abusive, ugly, angry, a wounded animal.
When I hold him I never want to let go. But alone in this moment, my body is shaking and I can’t help but think that I am my best self when I’m cold and unfeeling. Pretending that I can live alone for the rest of my life.
Where is this coming from?
I feel dangerous. Angel faced with spider fingers that would gleefully rip off the head of anything that stands in my way. Plump, pink lips that whisper poison into the ears of children. I could have people killed by their own hands with the things I say.
I could scream at you to jump, but it is so much more effective to let you whisper yourself to the edge.
I haven’t let go of the anger.
I haven’t truly forgiven.
My fear clings to him.
My pride clings to him.
But who is he to me?