there's so much longing in here, I say to my therapist, pointing to where it lives at the end of my throat. it's spilling out. it's spilling over. it's spilling inward.
at work, in line to pay for groceries, brushing my teeth in a quiet apartment, the feeling will squeeze its grip: I have so much more to give than this. it stings like frostbite — to feel so cold, you burn. to feel so lonely, you're suffocated.
I've gone running and writing and left cookies on neighbors' doorsteps. sung loud enough to hear my echo at the other end of town. still go days without a word. at the end of the night, my hands cramp with the need to hold. a ferocity to be good to someone—someones. a want to be of use. all this energy with little place to go. all that goes unsaid, collecting, consuming like a rust.
