you won't get what you want

swimming lessons

Under the water, I can't hear myself think. Lukewarm chlorine stains my skin, blurs my vision to where the world blurs into one large shape, a conglomerate of sight and smell, a buffet of sensory hell doused in the liquid cocoon that encases my body - I retreat to hide away my shame at my burning gaze of muscles and flesh I wish I held upon myself. To be in the same soup of sweat and flesh amongst him and them, unlike air the water traps the nerves, churns them until I feel trapped in a bathtub. Except the walls aren't stark white, except there are no bubbles, the sponge is missing under the skin, and my skin evolves to be marked by the indents of both teeth and blade. The teeth are across the water but the eyes are infinite.

Worst of all, the water has soaked into my bloodstream the infection of desperate, carnal desire of the naked form - of someone I had walked the ring of fire, hand in hand with, in the act to find their truest self. I was his lawyer in the court of life, I fought for him, my tears were expelled once and only once for him - I cry for few.

If only to have, to hold, until the sun reaches the border and the land is covered in darkness that I can melt into, fade slowly towards the oblivion of noise and cease to be human, fully and truly. And only to be the object of attention, feeling the vulnerability of exposed territories, such is the art of early battles amongst new land - my eyes roam over unexplored pastures, as the early settlers dawned upon the lush possibilities - I languish in those, in him. But alas, this is not my house, nor my land. He is untamed, raw, belonging to another heart. 

Sharing the water is the closest I will ever get to you again.

And the hunger hits, crawling onto dry land, the burning hole in the sky stains my skin again, iridescent light wrapping around unguarded skin - the eternal embrace.

Drained of all energy, I am not foolish enough to call it love, so I call it as it is:

hunger.