You decide your heart is a glass people continue to sip from.
You aren’t offered a taste in return.
You find yourself hollowed out, the appetizer before the main course.
People don’t come back for you.
You are the bit to satisfy the hunger pains, a shrimp skewer.
A bite size burger that slides down throats.
And you accept this without reserve,
Figure you are meant to survive full of lonely and wanting.
You are not the main course. You decide it’s okay.
Someone will eat you.
And it will work, for a while.
You feel best when you are sustaining life.
You want to be nourishment and you wonder if this makes you weak.
How often you crave fulfilling others.
Is this an addiction?
Your inability to take a drink yourself?
Because you are more than 60 percent water, after all.
So you rain and thunder and wash over everyone else.
But you are thirsty too.
And then they approach you,
a mouth forming around “baby”
and “I want you. I want you.”
But you are so convinced
you are just the one before
the real thing.
And you cannot accept
this real thing.
You cannot come crying,
hands and knees,
explaining your mind is a cornfield maze and people get lost
never find their way back out,
So you fuck with eyes closed,
and pretend you don’t feel anything.
Because you feel everything.
So you push it aside, deaden it with every thrust.
You are a cadaver with life buried deep inside someone else,
and you cannot let them know.
They might be fucking a corpse.