an anchor.

“…why this doubt that I have about everything I do, this void that frightens me, all these lost illusions?”

It’s possible that a love’s sole purpose is to be unrequited, to build a pressure without release until we find an act that allows for it to escape—to seep or burst—from us. There are the common ones: booze, drugs, travel, academia, sex. I’ve tried them all. Certainly, none are enough to make up for the fissure inside—only an attempt to find a new way to breathe, to place yourself in the world of without.

I hold on to everything. Will you please help me let go? Sometimes I feel overwhelmed by sadness and anger stuck in my body. Sometimes I want to be other people. Sometimes I hate parts of myself. Sometimes I feel like I am different people. Maybe I have multiple personality disorder. Nope, I don’t, I just looked it up.

I like that sweet little hothouse mouth you have. I like to kiss you with tongue, with gusto,

She is the most exquisite butterfly, with a body full of scars and wings made of flowers.