Why do I have to feel so much?
Want so much?

I just end up eviscerating everyone,
tearing out their insides,
and devouring them like candy,
and I wonder how anyone
could still want me.

But they do.

So many
love me,
want me,
desire me,
need me,

and all I am is
dust and bone
and pieces of broken flesh
smashed into a body I don’t even know.

It’s strange to let myself want,
to let myself be okay with wanting
a different kind of love.

To be okay with

But I do.
I want it.

I want you
and your cottage in the woods.
Your rough skin
and those light eyes
hiding under dark hair,
dark thoughts.

I want you more than I thought I could
after him.

I loved him (still do) in a way
that aches in my bones,
and missing you feels the same.

I think I could love you
in a way that


all other attempts
even though I pretend
they make me feel
like you feel.

Even though
I know
all I need
is you.


One thought on “Cottages

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