THE MOST VICIOUS CYCLE
- 9 hours ago
- 1 min read
By Gillian Lenore
Beneath the cracked bones in my chest,
where old shadows braid themselves into prayer,
there’s a hunger- inherent and incessant-
a beast, born from loneliness,
fed on every hand that ever let go.
It would silently call out.
And monsters would come.
Smelling of comfort and wearing sheep’s clothing, I let them in-
and spent years confusing echoes for answers,
claws for comfort,
gnashing teeth for devotion.
I mistook their shadows for shelter,
their hunger for love,
and let them feed on the part of me that still believed in things like salvation.
How many times have I offered my heart to hands meant only to destroy?
Each left me hollowed deeper,
defeated and devoured.
Yet I sprint back, every opportunity, every time the potential presents itself.
The trembling desperation-
addicted to being wanted, even if wanting ruins me.
There is something unbearably human about this need to be chosen,
to be a place of return instead of abandon,
to be wanted in a way that won’t leave me empty and broken in places that can’t be fixed.
This addiction seems to always call out to the night,
and the night seems to always answer with another monster wearing a man’s mask.
And in the quietest hours,
when courage thins
and honesty bleeds through,
when the moon is merciless and the wind unforgiving,
I wonder if I was destined only for this vicious cycle-
to cradle monsters,
to be gently ripped apart,
never to know a love that doesn’t bite.