his famished look*
Everything that’s not you has settled into the wreckage of my bones, living between the hairline cracks, sneaking into the marrow. There’s no exorcism for this. This is no ghost. Only wolves pacing inside my smile, all my love wondering – wandering – by moonlight obscured by clouds. This is how a wild thing learns to keep silent. This is how silence offers itself as an ally, only to offer a knife to my back.
Today, I am made of questions. Today, I am borne of the unknown. Today, I am missing you exquisitely, as if I’ve never known anything else. With you, I never know what will happen, only that something will. And everything becomes two hands made of lightning, and I’m lost in the dark without them. The wolves are pacing, love. Pacing like their very lives are on fire.
Don’t mistake me: I am not craving the past. I am not content with old memories, turned inside out. I want new earthquakes and blind destinies. I want to forget the ruin we’ve sometimes made of each other – all the hope bottled up as sudden grief, sudden separation. I want that gone. In its place, I want you.
Should is a word the betrays hope. Should is a coward’s refuge. Should looks like mercy, but it has vicious teeth. It always goes for the throat. It demands that you start a war with yourself, one you have no intention of winning. Is that what you want: to trap yourself with your own fractured reasoning? The world is prison enough. Don’t you dare thank your captor for the privilege.
If you listen carefully, you can eavesdrop on my heart. Hold your ear up to my chest, and a thousand wishes will pour out. One will be your name. Another will be our story. A third will be a dream I can’t give up – a voice I can’t shut out. Today, silence is my gift to you.
I have burned every bridge I’ve ever stood on. I’ve loved every shoreline as it turns to glass. This is my arson. I never said I was easy, never claimed I wasn’t dangerous. But I’m no longer interested in maybe and sad stories. If you want something, you have to take it. And you know exactly where I am.
I want every bit of war you ever allowed into your touch. I want fallen cities and brave mistakes. Because this is no dream, no fantasy. This is not pristine and perfect. This is a mess made of good intentions. These are flaws made of an open heart. And my reason has begun to lose its temper. Eventually, everything will out. Even the wolves are waiting for the forest to burn. I wonder:
How long has my body been made of gasoline? And how long have you been holding that match?
*title shamelessly stolen from Margaret Atwood’s The Blind Assassin