it is a kind of hunger, i suppose, but needled through with desperation and the beads of sweat that sometimes runs down my back in summer when you beat me outside with branches torn from your trees. i'm the one who opened the door, stepped through, and made my choice. i'm struck, always, by the way i keep turning to you in the night - the tugs on my leash are no longer necessary.
in the worst of moments when i'm cold and dreading what i will say next, i sometimes forget why i'm here. why i am so hungry for you, so open and always waiting. then i remember, when your fingers tangle in my hair or drag across my cheek or i see you watching me in my dawn struggles for air. there are still tiger scratch marks on my thigh you left weeks ago during something akin to rage but closer to possession.
photo entitled "open door" by panspics
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