It Would Be So Much Easier If This Was Just Lust, And Not Love


I could compress my love for you into lust. I could objectify you and make you into a statue for my intimate pursuits.

I could tell myself that it’s not my mind that needs you, it’s my body. I could learn the textures of your skin with my fingertips on a bed that’s a little small with cheap alcohol coating my tongue.

We could make this work, stripping away the excess of emotional baggage, leaving behind a relentless but pure physical attraction.

The lust would be powerful but curable. It would know exactly what it wanted and would live in the moment, unscathed by fears for the future and un-entangled with the past.

You could watch goose bumps form on my skin as you pull back my layers. The words that always eluded me when I was with you would no longer be necessary as we wrote a language of our own.

Slowly, we’d hold on to a moment of warmth. The music playing in the distance would be concealed by our erratic breaths; not harmonizing like they should because the details don’t matter in this hasty exchange. It’s convenience, not necessity. Lust would be the product of a moment; a surge and an impulse.

I could make a mess of myself trying to make sense of the mess I’ve created. I could force this into something tangible in hope that I might be able to control it.

Love is a marathon. I’ve never been a distance runner, my lungs implode and the acid in my mouth threatens to dissolve my insides.

Lust is a sprint. I’ve never been good at those either, but why prolong the pain?

These are the lies I could tell myself, but they’ll ultimately just twist me further into the labyrinth. I’m a fool to think even for a second that my feelings are so disposable. There can’t be ‘no strings attached’ when I’m so knotted up that I’ll catch on to anything that comes too close.

I could compress my love into lust but some things aren’t meant to be compressed. There’s only so much pressure I can take before I explode, leaving catastrophe in my wake. I can’t keep being so self-destructive because no matter how long I spend picking up the pieces, some are always lost. If I’m not careful I’ll loose a little too much. Marathon or sprint my muscles burn. Love or lust, either will destroy me. It’s time to just walk for a while. Time to learn myself before I learn somebody else. It’s time to learn to embrace a walk of solitude.

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