We’re Only Interested In Each Other When We’re Naked


I start with nervousness. Clichés and sentences that, even for me, seem terribly cheesy. “I don’t do this often…” And yes, it’s true. But I’m sure you don’t care. We are using one another for things we don’t willingly verbalize. Even if we know it’s true. There is no permanence here.

You only want me when I’m there.

I only want you when I hear the ache in your voice.

You text me when there’s something you’d like to see. And truth be told, sharing my nakedness never bothered me. You don’t text me to see how I’m doing, or ask about my family. You want to know when I’m in town, how my ass curves in jeans. And I don’t mind. I know what we are, Darling. I’m looking for your nudity too.

But maybe this time, I’ll send you my vulnerability. The time my mother called me during 5th period. How I was in the locker room changing when I heard, “It’s cancer.” How I fell to the ground, girls rushing to my side to pick me back up.

The time I researched my family roots and traced manic depression as far as I could see. How I was scared of my own blood, because it so often boils and then runs cold.

The time I loved him so much and he loved me too but it wasn’t enough. How I finally understood the importance of timing.

All the little bits you can’t see when you’re clutching my breasts. When you’re tearing at my clothes. That I can get so bare with you and you still can’t see.

This time when you ask for a picture, I want you to get the big one. The full one. Just this once, I’m going to give you all of me. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

About the author

Ari Eastman

✨ real(ly not) chill. poet. writer. mental health activist. mama shark. ✨

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