I’m just so fucking hungry I could devour everything.
I want to this to be the man that sates me,
who feeds me the eight times a day I’m hungry and watch me lick the plates.
I want to suck on tea bags and his neck.
I want to let my tongue trace the lines and veins of him.
When he speaks I want him to keep speaking for days until his throat is so raw that I can see the words press themselves out of his bloody lips.
What did he do to me for me to have become this hungry thing?
I want everything he can give me.
I want him to fill me in every sense of the word.
I can’t control this desperate, aching, feeling in my fingertips.
I want to dig my nails into him and look for answers.
The spaces between my teeth wants to know him.
This man is born of earth and meat and bones and I want to love him raw.
I’m just so fucking hungry I could devour everything.
The truth is that you’re not a new person every seven years,
the cell replacement in your body is quicker than that.
My body is not a graveyard of your touch.
The truth is I am as free of you now as I will ever be.
I don’t need to count years anymore.
The traveler is a slim man in his twenties, blue jeans, black shirts and a grey pea coat that he wears tightly wrapped in the cold winter and hangs over his arm in warmer weather. His name is Luke and he is not from around here, he resides in London, but he’s never there for long. Piling books against the wall, taking long baths and drinking wine from the bottle while humming and then he’s gone again. But right now he is walking down a street in Paris towards a cemetery, his hands are fisted in his pockets and his jaw muscles are tight. Heavy steps from his boots can be heard echoing throughout the streets. When he comes to the gate he continues walking with a focused gaze forward until he reaches a grave where he promptly sits down, takes out a flask and a small glass from his inside pocket and pours himself a drink. “Now, you listen here, I have some choice words to say about your book “A longing through space” and I don’t even care if you don’t understand English, you French cunt!” He sips his whisky before he launches into a great speech of how the bones of the dead author underneath his sitting form is useless and too clever for his own good and how his main character is unbelievable and he wouldn’t know a good love story if it slapped him in the face. At the end of it he stands up, legs stiff and cold and pours another drink into the glass which he leaves on the grave. “Good talk, you bastard, I only wish you were alive so I could make you choke on this drink.” With that he turned and walked back towards the hotel, more relaxed in his movements and with a slight smile on his lips.
He decided long ago that while having a comfortable home was important, a place to leave your books and figurines, it would never occur to him to settle down there for more than a few weeks at a time. And even then when two weeks had passed he would get restless and take the tube around London looking for new places to walk. There is not a single foot left of the grey city that he has not wandered by now. As he walks up the stairs to his flat he passes his neighbour, a plump woman in her forties who smiles at him “soooo, where are you coming from now then?” she asks in a shrill welsh accent and he winces a bit at the noise. “I had a dream about a café in Bosnia and I traveled to see if it was real or not. I return home defeated but sated.” He answered in a low voice and again winced when she started laughing. “You’re a real eccentric, anyway you have a nice evening then, I gotta go pick up Dolly.” She walks (wobbles he thinks to himself) down the stairs and he unlocks the door to his flat and walks inside. Two more books, a small box of pastries from a café who was not the one he dreamt of, and a bottle of wine. He’ll stay for a few days and then he will go to India to buy new fabric for his sofa. The traveler is a slim man in his twenties, sitting in a window in a small London flat wondering how people live their entire lives in a small villages and think nothing of it.
We teach ourselves that we can’t be free until we no longer crave attention.
Need no one, we chant through clenched teeth.
“You will only be happy when you fully accept yourself.”
“You can’t love anyone else unless you love yourself”
Love only yourself, please only yourself.
But no one tells us how we’re supposed to learn love locked in an empty space.
I can trace fingers down my chest mimicking the hands of a lover, but they don’t soothe me.
I can whisper words of reassurance, but I drag my tired body to bed at 3 am because it’s empty.
Without you I would manage, heaving and gasping through difficult nights.
But I am no weaker for waking you up and asking you to hold me.
“Need no one” They chant “You will only feel happiness when you’re fine with being alone.”
And if you weren’t here I would cope.
But since when is it a sign of strength to drag ourselves lonely and beat through our days?
I’m allowed to need you.
And on that subject I am not made of miracles and forgiveness.
Not here, not in your arms.
In your arms I am soft skin, flesh that gives under your lips, scars and scabs and hair.
I don’t want to be stardust or other metaphors for healing and managing on my own.
And I don’t want to be the only one who loves me.
When I told her I was a hurricane she didn’t flinch.
She wrapped her arms around me and laughed into my neck.
You wear your warning signs like jewelry she said.
Isabell on her knees sings songs of forgiveness because I’m all out.
My teeth haven’t touched together in two days and my throat is raw.
She crawls on top of me, her hands holding onto wrists like she’s afraid I’ll throw her off.
There will be other days, she says, there will be other lovers.
This isn’t the first time you’ve broken and it won’t be the last.
Storms will come and rage and you will be thunder and ice.
Touch will thaw you and you will be spring once again.
Let it pass.
And when she kisses me I can taste healing behind her teeth.
Isabell under my fingertips sing songs of waves,
she doesn’t flinch when I threaten to tear her asunder and she laughs into my chest.
You wear your warning signs like a believer wears crosses, she says, always clutching them and praying for miracles.
There is nothing romantic about being a battlefield where men have fallen.
Babe, your hair is the colour of red crumbly bricks of a fallen building.
The same bricks you picked up and threw against a window when you were 13.
You never told anyone, there was a lot you never told anyone.
I know you feel like they’ve dug trenches in you.
I know you feel like you’re covered in shrapnel from men who would not stop exploding in your vicinity.
And sometimes when you speak they hear nothing but sirens.
I’m sorry you’re hurting while they get to run for cover.
But darling you were born with riots in your veins,
and there are days when you wake up to silence,
there are nights when your eyes aren’t burning.
And I think it’s time you march on home.
March home, sweetheart, and tell them you won.