freaked out

why do i feel like the only one wanting it?

What the fuck.

They told me men think of it always —

of hunger, of heat, of hands grasping in the dark.

And yet here I am,

the only one starving aloud,

the only one begging for the feast.

I set the table.

I carve the fruit open.

I offer the sweetest parts on a silver plate —

and still,

nothing.

Not a knock at the door.

Not a hand reaching back.

Not even a shadow.

Am I some bitter thing, left too long in the sun?

Am I something they smell on the wind and turn away from?

I make it so simple —

a soft, wicked suggestion tucked into a laugh,

“Maybe I should come over and see what the hype’s about,”

meaning:

“I will break open for you if you give me even an inch.”

Unmet fucking needs.

I brushed a railing the other day and it nearly undid me —

a simple graze and my body lit up,

a wolf circling an empty clearing.

I miss the heft of it,

the weight,

the dumb, blessed reality of it.

I want to taste devotion with my tongue,

press it until it rises to meet me,

build worship from friction and breath.

To be or not to be?

I have knelt before altars before —

now I want to climb the whole cathedral.

Where are the ones who hunger back?

The ones with restless hands and open mouths?

Instead, I am left with fuckass ghosts

who reach out only when loneliness gnaws at their ribs,

who want a mirror, not a body,

a listener, not a flame.

I’m fighting for my fucking life out here,

and no one even wants the war.