It’s hunger that drove me to knock your door. A hunger I never knew existed. Such a ridiculously imposing word, ‘hunger’. It rises from the darkness of somewhere inside you- maybe from the stomach, maybe from the heart- and sometimes from even lower. But when it does, it wipes away conscious thought. It diminishes you to a creature that knows only one feeling that’s sounding from somewhere right inside.
I couldn’t stop myself from eating. I still can’t. There’s a peace in eating that no sleep has given me yet. It’s mechanical and it guarantees some flimsy satisfaction that I cannot express. I’ve just suddenly stopped eating. I come home and something about this house makes me reject anything edible here. It’s been 21 years, and I haven’t felt this dejected.
5 days and counting. Subway sandwiches are alright, buy I haven’t swallowed a bite beyond. This is scaring me.
That hunger from the down below? That craving for the touch of bare skin? Satiated for a bit, almost- and diminished now. Strange isn’t it? I thought I’d like to live that way. Nothing stays. Except a memory that gives a little bit less of a jolt every time there’s a new message on the phone, and a name in class reduces you to inexplicable tears that you never knew existed. The lip-biting has stopped, only to give way to gnawing at the knuckles.
This doesn’t scare me. I have seen the yearning reduce and one day it’ll be a memory that nothing will remind me of. No signs will bring him to mind and no scars will have a name to them.
It’s the third kind that scares me.
This need for conversation that I have grown into. This constant itch for making someone spill out a bit of them to me. Their arrogance, their way with words, their disappointments and a trail of knowing. It isn’t that kind where you make a connection, talk about a word and keep in touch for years later. Mine are volatile. Because I fear the proximity and the exposure that bringing someone close risks. I will put my world down into as many words as I can, but to have someone stand there and expect a reply from me is a new thrill, and a fear.
Which is also a feeling that doesn’t leave me, forgive me. It stays, lingers like a memory in the phone inbox or the DM tab- and suddenly, I’m lonelier because I know that someone had tried to talk to me and had to eventually give up.