I wake from 6 hour slumber
wordlessly, thoughtlessly
(thankfully) hungry.
In such moments
I’m not a person defined by starvation or it’s opposite.
In such moments
I’m not a person at all.
In such moments
I am simply HUNGER,
with no itellection or sentiment attached.
It’s so much easier when I don’t have to suppose,
reckon, consider or cogitate…
but knowing this, (paradoxically)
makes it that much harder
to NOT think about it.
I proceed toward the kitchen;
a compartment
that is far too compartmentalized;
a meaningful place
with far too much meaning.
Aaron always says that
I move with the silence of a ghost;
I believe I know why this is so,
yet I’ve never expressed this to him
because I’ve never expressed it to myself.
Everytime I leave our bedroom
I must approach that ignominious addiction;
that nutritious poison
which others proudly consume,
while my own natural cravings
are an endless source of personal shame.
“If I openly admit what I desire,
then monsters might hear me
and devour innocent children.”
What you could never understand is
that I know this to be true…
Still, I slip out while others are sleeping
or likely unobservant;
when distractions (and witnesses)
are unlikely to stir any sense
of self awareness.
But this ghost walking shell
is clumsy and trips an alarm;
the theft alert klaxon
of the unreached microwave.
I know I mustn’t eat now
but as panic approaches
I strive to curb its consequences.
Scented wax is melted
to burn away the odor of consumption.
Those mouth watering aromas
were long ago converted to putrescence
to save the lives of terrified children…
and though I know now these were lies
told by a sermonizing demon father,
that doesn’t actually make his words any less legitimate.
I remove layers of complication.
I scrub nauseatingly disruptive dishes,
scouring them clean of repulsive remnants
before placing them in the
mechanical dishwasher because
there can be no trace evidence left behind,
even when the sins committed are not my own.
Still, my continuing hunger must be punished.
I don’t wait. I use my weakness like strength.
I walk down 92 steps and over several city blocks
to local grocery store, where I nearly leave empty handed.
It is not uncommon for me to leave unsatisfied
several times over…but I haven’t the strength today.
I remind myself to breathe; to pay attention to how I breathe,
as I negotiate with a monster’s former victim.
Get something.
Anything.
Just get something!
There’s no bus but I count this as blessing.
I walk several uphill blocks and
I struggle in hope that exhaustion
will bring me back to dumb unknowing salvation.
After stumbling up 92 steps
I fumble senselessly into
cramped space of torture and horror –
where my lover drags me kicking and (silently) screaming
back to the awareness I’ve fought so hard to bury.
As partner tries to touch me
he removes still washing dishes,
preparing to make another noxious concoction
to stifle my progress.
What the fuck?
Righteous anger briefly explodes behind my eyes
before quickly dimming upon recognition
of his otherworldly normality.
My beloved is not like us
and he does not see the monsters.
I think to begin the cycle again;
with thoughts on emptying the trash
and cleansing the filth
which likely still rests on his office desk…
but exhaustion overwhelms us as I slink away to bedroom
where I scrawl this across notebook pages,
interrupted only momentarily by my darling’s entrance;
I refuse to stop writing or look love in the eye –
because I have to write this out –
because I’m falling apart –
because he needs to be acknowledged if we are to continue.
But as I finish, I read out what I’ve written
because
this madness is not all that I amand Aaron’s love has a way of breaking me free
of my ruinous captivity.
Written by Jason Wright
September 15, 2018
