I might just like being afraid of something.
I might just be hungry for the fear of wanting someone.
I might just.
My heart might just be perpetually beating too fast.
My palms might be sweating just slightly.
All of those things they tell you about wanting someone,
They just might be true.
And I can tell myself again and again and again that this doesn’t mean anything.
But things that sneak their way under your skin always mean something, at least to me.
Things that burrow their way into my heart
And live there, sight unseen, for weeks, years, a month, a day, an hour, a split second,
Needle prick that draws a dot of blood,
Until the tip of my finger is glossy and red, and my mouth blooms with the metallic taste of blood.
The offending piece of metal is already forgotten,
On the floor,
Tucked into a pocket,
Stabbed through the arm on the cardigan I wear around the house
Waiting for another finger to stab
For more blood to rise to the surface.
My mouth dried up at the sight of blood again,
Your name is on my tongue again.
Your eyes are lit on mine again.
Everything blooms again.