lust

Infatuated With Love Habits

Watercolor by Agnes Cecile

Watercolor by Agnes Cecile

I never was a poet. I was just infatuated with one. The one that knew how to say, ‘You look beautiful’ without moving his lips. Every time we kissed, he took the best parts of me with him. I did what I always do. Let him have me wholly, consume me wholly and then runaway consuming all of him that he could ever give to anybody. I let him spoil me with his recurrent presence that eventually lead to significant with drawl. I fall short of vocabulary to summarize every time we made love; how I smothered him on my lips, let him slip himself a little deeper each time and how everything around us would explode into a constellation of phosphenes. He’d gaze into the mirror with me and leave me with a incessant smile; one that made me feel invincible. His husky demeanour was captivating and eventually intimidating. He could make me do anything, I could do everything. I wanted to do him again and again. It all started from the public toilet of the down town pub where I bumped into him for the first time. Damn, it felt so wrong, it felt so right. We moved to my bedroom, the kitchen, the balcony, someone else’s balcony, the parties I never liked, the theatre and everywhere else. I lured him to come along everywhere. He was with me in my prom; he was there when I graduated. He was either in me or on my mind.

The world suddenly became an ocean of relentless romance. How I’d miss the taste of him, the nights he wasn’t home; warm like a shot of caffeine blooming hot in my veins, reaching every finger tip, numbing my hands, swaying my body into the splurge of this moment, sending my brain into a happy oblivion. Together we craved to be persistent, until I decided to walk away. The love had now transformed into various levels of obsession which ended up as purple marks on my skin that I never remembered getting. Meanwhile, I found someone else and it felt different; it felt like home. The previous was now a bundle of burning leaves and needles that hurt. The old love was now presumptuous and unabashed with no guilt or shame. There was no feeling beautiful, love making was self damaging and there was no turning around. Before I ended up destroying him, he had taken away more than I could give to him this time. I was never a poet. I was just a pretty face with drug habits.

Submitted to ArtParasites by Vidya Sethi