The Cruelty of Yearning

An unfortunate side effect of being alive.

Small talk and ordinary days leave me riddled with holes. Whatever sludge lives inside me spills out in everyday conversation, and I scramble to keep it in my body. There are only a million things the eyes can see, and still, I find nothing. I have an appetite that ordinary experiences can’t satisfy.

I feel my way through the world, searching for something only a soul could crave, and my hands are empty. I’ve searched for it in drugs. Experiences. People. But reality isn’t quite capable. The things I can touch, feel, taste and smell only reach as deep as the waking world allows them to be.

I’ve always had darker tastes—in art, music, movies and especially people. I’ve spent most of my life trying to reconcile what I look like with what lives inside me. No one would ever suspect the little blonde girl with the blue eyes and bubbly personality needs pretty nightmares that never end. There is a romantic violence stitched into the fabric of my psyche that I’ve lost the needle to. It’s been hard finding the person that holds the thread and is willing to stitch our mangled pieces together.

I discovered dark romance novels earlier this year.

Holy shit, this is it. This is me.

There was an excitement so deep, I knew I’d never be able to shovel it out of me no matter how long I went digging. I figured if other people can write this, read this, I wasn’t alone in wanting something so nearly extraterrestrial.

I couldn’t put those books down.

There was sex, yes. I became immersed in a world that mirrored my exact desires—unwavering loyalty, tender mercilessness and the gift of being savagely chosen. The push and pull. The sweet sickness. The power.

I indulged. Like a man does with porn. Like us women do with filters. Like when hardcore fans of a television show see the actors as the characters they play instead of as their own person. It only enhanced my wanting. I’m still not sure if I was throwing prayers through an echo chamber or if there’s a God that answers them. Once I consumed thousands of words, they imprinted on me. I had questions. But I definitely had revelations—

I wouldn’t settle for anything less than the darker side of my heart’s desire, even if that meant staying single forever.

I can still appreciate ordinary love. But the extraordinary breathes somewhere inside me and every time it inhales, a rib cracks.

It feeds on me until I read again.

Sometimes I’ll find someone I kind of like. And I do, you know? Like them. Even though I know they won’t be forever, I try to make it into something it’s not. Poor things. They couldn’t possibly morph themselves into something that still and wild at the same time. And I am truly sorry—to those I projected expectations onto only for both of us to be disappointed in the end.

How could I expect someone to be anything other than what they’ve shown me?

Perhaps you are different. Maybe you’re not. Maybe you enjoy solving problems through healthy communication or taking space. And all of that is possible in every relationship. But there are graves to dig and I’ll be shoveling all day if all we have are hands to empty the earth before us. Once I hit six feet, I won’t be coming back. I won’t if you won’t anyway.

There is a unique power in willingly giving yours to another. My body is swollen with it, actually.

Fuck, please take some. I always feel myself sinking from the weight of it.

It doesn’t always have to lead to sex. Sometimes it’s through a touch that seems insignificant to everyone else, but transcendent to only me and the person experiencing it. Maybe it’s through the tone of someone’s voice that makes me feel particularly undone. Maybe it’s the way you look at me when I’ve done something that displeases you.

Maybe you are like me—walking the edge of the cliff because it makes your heart beat faster. You like a little banter because you want to see how far you can push someone. You want to see what they’ll do, what they’ll say and maybe your ass will be red by the end of it. Because it reminds you how fucking alive you are. And you need that, you need the sick.

You go looking for it in places that don’t exist—fictional books, movies and your imagination. Perhaps you feel like a fictional character yourself, living in a story you’ve created all your own.

There is a deep cruelty in yearning.

I read about Zade from Haunting Adeline cutting the thorns off of a rose to give to his lover so she won’t hurt herself. Then I return to a conversation with a man that hasn’t asked me a single question about myself. Or reading about another fictional character that gave a five-finger necklace to his woman mid-argument. Only to turn to the man I’m talking to who overreacts to every little disagreement like a toddler.

I can’t.

Because maybe for awhile, I do try to play the game. You know the one. The ego game. The nonchalant game. The one where you wait to text someone back because you don’t want to seem too eager. It chips away at you. This isn’t what I want. It’s not who I am. It’s almost an insult to everything I’m capable of feeling. How do you casually play a game when your organs are on the table?

Everyone loves the idea of a soul laid bare until they’re the ones being asked to undress. Everyone wants to be understood, yet are terrified of being seen. We are all staring at each other, waiting to see who bleeds first. Because the first to bleed is usually the one left bleeding. The soft one who showed everyone else why it was never safe to love first. Now we’re unattractive. Now we’re pathetic. In exposing ourselves, we’ve revealed the most vulnerable part of the human condition. Everyone point and laugh. Everyone screenshot this. Everyone look away.

There’s a bravery, you know. In being the one who bleeds first. In being the one who bleeds long after the battle is over. I bet you didn’t even show up to the duel with your armor on. I can almost guarantee you showed up with nothing but an open mind and a bleeding heart in those insufferable heavy hands.

The weight of it slows me down. I feel like a completely killable thing in an immortal world.

I think that’s where you meet the others, though. The ones who never imagined they’d need to bring a sword into a place that was supposed to be soft. Someone will find the blood trail and follow it until they find you. It’s okay to want.

But there’s always a cost.

Blood also attracts wolves. You must differentiate hunger and heart. You know the difference. You’ve felt both. You know what it looks like. We all have monsters. And everyone’s monster is looking to play with someone else’s monster. But some people have let the monster become the whole of them, and the heart never gets a chance to state its case.

Hunger hands you the rose and watches you bleed. Heart cuts the thorns off first.

What I want is not impossible. The way I want to be loved has already been born. I exist. Isn’t that proof enough that it might live in someone else?

I’ll bleed. And I’ll do it unapologetically.