hunger is a word i get lost on: not for food, but for substance.
hunger for essence, for life and prophecy. stick a piece of laughter in my mouth, please.
around people i don’t know, it’s hard to eat; i fear what my hunger looks like to the outside.
an appetite built on craving, that you don’t know how to bite into.
and it’s not like i’m a vapid girl; i lick my fingers after flipping through pages of used books, like it’s whatever. and yet, consume WebMD like a bombsquad for any clues on how I will disintegrate.
it is not hyperbole to believe that you can die at any moment.
that the bread you scarf down while driving won’t get caught in the wrong pipe, at the worst possible time.
some people do go that way. they have heart attacks behind the wheel, or seizures. some unlucky healthy young ones get stuck in the wake and we cry forever. sometimes, bums take the hit, and people mourn for just a little while.
what about sinkholes?
somehow that relates to my vaginal concerns. like, PH levels, and normalcy, and how one moment, the pavement beneath you could actually crumble.
where does that strange earth go?
does the land compact itself so tightly, that it can’t even breathe?
if the air inside your body holds onto you, when you can’t hold onto it.
can air move through a corpse, even just a little, to say goodbye?
at the pool, i was thinking: it’s crazy we spend our entire adult life paying to be here.
rent or a mortgage. we have to claim a spot of land, or we’ve lost ground.
this text is probably better meant for teenagers, who share the same loose reasoning.
somehow, i left my mind there, in the high school halls, always dreaming about
being late or glued to the stairwell. my emotional capacity is probably just now entering college, which undoes everything you ever thought was true.
like 8 hours of preparation, stamina-building for the work-life.
it isn’t as narrow as a drain, though. some people actually like the grind.
some people actually thrive in it, and would probably be addicts to lesser things, like stargazing.
my neighbor told me i was a workaholic, but he doesn’t know how i spend my time.
maybe one or two fourths is spent working. the other, I use to breathe, do handstands,
or think; sometimes I see how high I can touch the wall, but forget to measure.
there’s a place for everything, you know. even this.
even love. especially that, i guess; it’s a text that goes on forever,
and requires no book. just a look from a decent heart
that wants to keep turning the pages of you,
wants to see their name penciled into your margins.