For the first time in a long time, taking pleasure in something actively destroyed something else in my life. I never thought I'd lead a major public essay with the words, "As a practicing witch..." - but there was my stark confession, plain as motherfuckin' day.
But hunger still lingers.
I wrote about the hunger because it's still my frenemy. Hunger is the thing that makes me sharp and aspiring to be wise, but also chomps away at what little sense of self I'm able to curry every now and then.
I have a deep, deep hunger for things I know are terrible for me: approval, validation, softness, sex with men who don't even like me, long work nights, self-punishment, perfectionism.
It's all hunger.
I eat words because when I feast on my sorrow I grow heavier and heavier by the hour, my heart sinks through time and space.
I land once again in the bed that was my prison, as soft and tear-stained as the last night I laid in it. I see those primrose pink walls and white wood siding - stark, serene, like a scene from a horror movie.
I crave attention.
I crave validation.
I crave comfort and longing.
I crave pain so profound its alchemical, and tenderness so deep that I become the hunger.
And nothing but love will do.