i’ve never been without you, neither have i felt any real need for you. you were just someone that was there, someone that made living (and dying?) more comfortable.
then, there was the time that i wanted you. so much to have you, to prove i could have you, to say you’re not a big deal. that was the time i was so angry for not having you, not being able to get you, not being able to prove what you are or are not.
i hated you. what it meant not having you.
i could still taste that hatred sometimes.
it tastes like fat. like oil.
it hits your stomach
absorbs into your intestines
inches its way to those places that separate organs from each other
then seeps to just that fine, fine space under the skin
it sits there, you can’t get rid of it
but your stomach wants more
that slick, slimey feel on your lips
taste buds tingling for release
until you’re not sure who’s devouring what.
i haven’t a stitch of you left with me now
im a liar and a thief
and even i being me
wouldn’t trust myself if i were someone else.
why should you
a strange thing
to be free with nothing
not even a calculated expectation
everyone despises that
but the taste of it
is like sweet water.