I used to feel bad for wanting more. Small servings of mediocrity I trained myself to like the ache of hunger.

Quiet tones and hushed voices, don’t be a bitch. Don’t ask for much. Be gracious for what is offered and give yourself the rest. I feasted on the meal of so-called sufficient women. Framing my foreclosed self appraisal as sexual independence.

Too afraid to ask for what I wanted yet alone demand it. I settled. Over and over again accepting crumbs for companionship. Moans for meaning and pools for oceans. But now I wanted more.

Unable to quiet the growl in my belly any longer my soul cries out for sustenance. I wanted to swim the depths of someone until my lungs cried out for air and even then I would dive deeper, forcing evolution I’d learn to breath in new ways. I wanted to be lost so completely in the wood of him. I wanted volumes of words to be written on just our breaths alone. I would dance to songs of our silences and float downstream in the rivers of our laughs.

I wanted to explore the galaxy of us, his moons and my sun. Wedding new stars and birthing planets which held all of us and the possibility for that which only our composition could create. I wanted to taste limitlessness on his lips.

I willed our chance meeting determined that I would not fear him when I met him. That when I looked into his eyes and saw the deep blue of an infinite universe I could hold steady and meet him with my own guiding light.

Our alchemy would be such that we spoke a language indecipherable by others. I would mix poems and lyrics with riddles and rhymes and he would laugh knowing exactly what I meant. Answering and adding his own allusion and alliteration, finally my heart would cry out…more.


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