Tangled in this world, of sex and love and too much, and maybe even intimacy, are bodies. Flesh which develops - suddenly and with an overwhelming presence - a rash of cool dots running up its spine as fine, nearly transparent, hair stands prone, defiant.
Somewhere between love and bulimia, trapped beneath the sinews of too much and pages burdened by the meaning of the ink drying on its surface, is this thing that is the present. Now.
Deathly afraid of tomorrow, of emotion and what-if and gray lines and fine hair stained with wisdom. Fearful of the defined (but decidedly abstract) mass in its midst (a feeling?) whose presence cannot be tucked safely out of sight.
Because all we have - all any of us has - is right now. This body, the mess she is in, the unreciprocated and inverse and oh-so-dissonant love of body which coexists with the detest of soul (or vice versa).
Somewhere between gratitude for the body that sustains me and shame for the body that is too much exists a void of intimacy which cannot be replenished. Doubt and the possibility of self-acceptance (and maybe, just maybe, self-love) dwell here. A girl starving for her body to sustain another's. Living for the moments where her body is illicitly devoured by a person whose appetite cannot be satiated. Whose needs are more ravenous than her own.
In between such places, undeniably occupying this temporal construct, is a girl lost, a soul in need of replenishing. A body wishing to be empty and emotions wishing to be nurtured or even smothered.
How can I quit the thing whose appetite is satiated only by my own physical repulsions?