there are too many images in my head for them not to explode outwards, a tsunami with several shock waves, words upon words upon texts upon emails upon articles upon poems, an endlessly flowing disaster of words. (i wait for your withdrawal, i wait for your escape.) i would feel better-- cleaner, tighter, controlled-- if i could stop myself from speaking of you, stop myself from texting you, stop myself from seeking out your words like the quick bursts of drug-fueled satisfaction that they are. with endorphins and pheromones chasing each other like packs of abandoned dogs through tide-swept streets-- feral mouths, long teeth, concrete and sharp hunger-- each release is bright and painful in its relief. you are looking forward to it? you are? you are?
but i feel so far beyond this already-- drawn through the haze of questioning and wondering-- pulled straight into acquisitional curiosity, how can i be better suited to you? what can i give that will please you? and working so hard to overcome the most honest part of my emotions: the urgency with which i trace you, ask for you, seek more of you. i apologize, i amend, i edit my words and my emotions in the name of looking more like the woman i imagine you to want. in my gracelessness i seek grace, in my rush for you i seek quiet, sidelined moments, the chance to pause, reflect, and apply innumerable adjectives and dreams to you in hopes of articulating and processing the pressing crowd of feelings inside my blood.