fingers running along the scalp of someone else. in between dreaming and awake. yes i forgot that. that movement under the covers that means caring. there is the clawing, desperate grope that ive felt some times. the sex that comes towards morning. but when the sheets are tangled and youre pressing into someone, trying to absorb their goodness, ive missed that. when desperation means nothing because you are not desperate just eager. eager to not screw up. because you know what loss is. eager to acknowledge opportunity. because you know what gifts are. eager to devour, you know what starvation hunger is alone in the bathroom, crying on tile floor asking the shower curtain what you did to deserve this, because you must be a bad girl, if you feel so much pain. pain that drags your insides out, pain that is never wished upon the most maleficent. any form of physical torture would be preferable to this pain. it’s glass shards in your stomach and razor blades sliding down the esophagus, needles in the heart muscle, nails through the flesh until you bleed like a human sprinkler head, and all the while you are choking because there is a hot ember embedding in your soft palette. all you are breathing is sulfur. you know that pain, you know it so well. so when they offer you the drugs you’ll take them. but today, no today is not that day, not that pain. today is tonight and you are running delicate pressed fingers through someone’s hair. you don’t know the name of the product he uses, but one day you will. one day there will be names for everything. someday. tucking your hand on the side of his face he sighs and closes his eyes. you lift some of what you’ve felt from his face, and his exhale relieves the memory of your own scars. there are no accidents. unless it’s a car crash. but you already lived through that. death would be better, you know that. if this collides into that cement barrier and over the bridge you go, please let it kill me. you never plan anymore. then you started planning when you met him. the road maps and routes are penned. but you don’t want to get ahead of the game. you just cant help marking up that lighted globe, it hasn’t shone like that in a great many months. you might finally be a fish who loves a fish, not a doe lusting for the wolf. satisfied to be love’s sacrifice, just to feel something. maybe you don’t have to bleed for this one. maybe you will finally be enough. or maybe you’ll end up in the women’s ward again. it would be so much easier if you didn’t always live to disagree with yourself. arguing over whether the glass is half full or empty, when you know the truth, there is no glass. there is only you and what you can fill yourself with. stop putting dreams in hand baskets, you just lose them anyway. try to swallow this time.