IX: BEGGING, PLEADING, MOSTLY WHINGING

Touch me.

Please.

I’m begging you.

I need the warmth—

a hand on the small of my back,

a glance held in a crowded room,

a breath at my neck,

a grip at my waist,

a mouth on mine.

I’m freezing.

Cold like this

does things you can’t undo:

frostbite in the fingertips,

the knowledge that no amount of liquor

can soften the bite

or dull how sharp it feels

to be this untouched.

Touch me.

Please.

I’m begging you.

I need the proof—

a touch at my wrist,

a murmur along my spine,

a hand brushing my jaw,

a tender kiss at my temple,

a thumb pressed to my lip.

I’m invisible.

I’ve been a ghost so long

it’s starting to feel permanent.

I don’t remember how to be real—

just a shadow in a room,

a specter in a doorway,

a chill someone notices

when they cross my path,

a cold corner in a warm house.

I want to exist to someone.

For someone to notice when I leave

and miss me for it.

To be angry when I disappear—

to demand I come back,

make me kiss them goodbye.

Being a ghost teaches you this:

out of sight

is out of mind.

Touch me.

Please.

I’m begging you.

I need the taste—

a kiss that isn’t fake,

a touch that isn’t accidental,

a look planned ahead of time,

a whisper meant only for me,

a body pressed gently to mine.

I’m starving.

I don’t want to sound desperate,

but I could devour someone whole.

I thought I could stay like this forever—

ignore the hunger,

pretend knowing the recipe

was the same as being fed.

Starving for twenty years

makes you want specific things.

Meals you plan in the dark and

strategize at the end of the day,

after you’ve looked away

from the pastry case and the menu,

long enough

to forget