I want you to want me

to be as I am

I’m not perfect. 

What I told you is I want to fuck the world open with my words.

Hell, have I even gotten close to that? How am I supposed to know? 

After I come I’m a babbling, giggling, crying mess of love and every emotion that’s rippled, somehow, through me through space through breath through sound through you through us. 

Connection. It’s a curious thing. 

Where does it come from?

Openness. 

I don’t feel that flow of honey on the internet, at least, it’s not the same and maybe that’s my mistake. Thinking it could be something it isn’t.

Skin.

Hoping. Wanting.

It’s all wanting.

To be sure, a few of you (at least, that I know of) lap up the juice and make yourself heard, and for that I am eternally grateful. And I don’t remember it enough. Note to self: Hint hint. Nudge nudge. 

I hate complaining, but often it feels like I’m in a vacuum. Where’s the feedback? I know, how selfish. But is it? I’m only human; of course I’d like to be acknowledged. And I acknowledge, yes, everyone’s got their own shit. 

Listen though, I’ve got something to share. 

So? 

What am I supposed to do? 

Well, sharing is a good place to begin. 

Obviously.

Fuck the world open. 

I need that tattooed on my wrist. But also, how do I make friends?

I definitely do NOT need to be an octopus, taking the shape of her supposed enemies. 

What are enemies anyway? 

Sometimes I think my brain’s got it mixed up. I told you I’d rather be a panther. Minding my den. Licking clean my skin. Being the animal of me. That’s what I’m good at.

Being human, well. That's another story.

People, man. What am I supposed to do with them? With myself? These little aliens all around me. I understand the cat. She cries when she wants to go outside. She bites when she feels threatened. Or when she wants attention. Or when she wants to play. Which are all the same thing, apparently.

Excess energy needing an outlet. 

Okay so all these little aliens, “us” what’s our story? Sorry, I don’t mean to lump you in but what else can I do? 

We’re all searching for our outlets, aren’t we? Where do we plug in? What lights us up, turns us on, makes us wiggle with wonder?  

Maybe I do need to write fiction. I mean, this is incriminating. Yeah. I think you’re all aliens. But so am I. Now you know all my secrets. Hah… Oopsie! But not. Per my last letter, that’s exactly what I want. But more than that? 

I want you to want me back. 

We talked about how it’s just… awkward, to have conversations with relative strangers. 

There’s that thing again. Why isn’t the honey flowing? 

I think I thought, “maybe if I could just “fit in” the flow would happen,” but then I was cut off entirely. The tap stopped dripping as I lost myself to the abyss of everyone else and had no talisman to bring me back. 

Except that identity: poor, starving girl. 

I am still her. But more, too. The feeling of her - I don’t want to escape it anymore. The quaking mess of sensitivity, I like it. 

The wanting. The heat. The uncertainty. 

And the friction. 

Oh, the friction.

Now, the exoskeleton’s shed.
Here. My bones. My blood. My flesh.
My diary. Read it.
I want to be naked.
I want you to want me back. 

After live streaming my thoughts to you in 50+ text messages (whoever said not to double text would have a heart attack looking at my threads), I told you, “wow, I just noticed I got so wet, telling you all that.” 

Opening.

That’s all I want, isn’t it?

To open. To be as I am. 

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