Spilled Milk

Moyena's Body

Real love don't feel like this. Like water I have to beg for because it's not readily available. Instead it's dripping out of the faucet at unexpected intervals. So even at the threat of complete dehydration, if I miss a drop, I just miss it.

Real love doesn't feel like mourning. I shouldn't feel like I'm dying without you on the regular. As if it's part of my daily routine. I shouldn't have to cry over your absence while you're at arms reach.

I didn't even notice that I'm physically starving because my appetite for you has gone unsatiated for so long that that's all I could focus on. You had the chance to fix it when it was only a slight hunger, a small rumbling to let you know I needed you.

Now I'm shutting down. Little by little, my malnourishment of your "love" is growing like my disdain and hatred for you.

You never loved me to begin with. You used me. You wasted so much of MY time!

Anger builds inside of me so much so that I feel like I might spontaneously combust.

Things that are normal and completely fine begin to feel foreign. The thought of eating makes me nauseous. The thought of the skin on my bones and hair in my scalp is sickening to me.

I hurt. Everywhere. Inside and out. Part of me wants you to feel it. Part of me wants to be picking out the skin of your throat from in between my incisors and molars.

I feel insane, yet I only sit in bed and stare at the white walls having silent conversations with them so that I won't ruin my life because of this feeling inside of my body.