“All rosy and healthy on the outside, but all ashes inside.”- D.H. Lawrence.
This inner weakness has always been, the feeling of warmth. Of intimacy. Heat and intensity, never in drought. But closeness? Well, that’s another demon in its entirety. I was never built for closeness. Disconnection, vital for bloom. Withdrawing, the essence of flourish. Burial, always. For I do not exist within human life. Human need. A mind, never fully within grasp. One thigh rooted firmly in the earth, the other flesh, forever belonging to the angels. Writing. The river of my blood. The thunder of my heart. The thing that singlehandedly destroys my soul, yet continues to breathe life. For if I didn’t write, I surely would have died. To write is to bleed. And nothing can fix this overflowing wound. I solely exist within the fluidity of poetic intoxication. And bloodlust. Eternal bloodlust.