by Geselle Dominguez
Captivated is one way of describing it.
Hands find themselves tied together when I'm around you.
I've already burnt my tongue trying to get closer, but I'll keep drinking what you serve me.
Drown myself in it even, can't you see I'll love you for it?
Remove my ribs so you can fold me easier, and I'll fit so well in your luggage.
I can straighten my back, my legs, my hair, myself; no skin off my bones, you see?
Unless you need that too.
I wouldn't say I'm disposable, of course.
More so, multi-purposeful.
Just enough to find me capable to clean your messes, wash your wounds, make you better for you; not enough to stay.
But you never take the time to ask what happens to the scar tissue once I've taken chunks of my flesh to feed you, huh?
Don't worry too much about it, I won't ever ask you to, either.
We can continue this cycle for as long as you want. Washed out, rinse, repeat.
Call it hereditary; lessons from my mother showed me that the best way to make a person feel the warmth you feel around them is through the giving of oneself.
But when the boundaries and thresholds find themselves without limit, without warning, does that warmth become like light or like lava?
And I know that love is often compared to chemical highs, but is this what overdosing feels like?
Everything seems vaguely similar to my ideas of what death must be like, eating me alive from the inside just to feel closer to yours, euphoria long since forgotten and faded.
I want for you more than I want for myself and you know that.
Don't tell me you do too, or else it'll swell a thousand fold, overshadowing what my sense of healthy could ever hope to achieve.
The irony of living surrounded by greenery, yet engaging in behavior so far from sustainable.
Captivated, yes, by a deep sense of uncertainty; are these months too short to jump or too long to run?