Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are so dangerously close to wanting nothing.
—Sylvia Plath
I will not be moderate.
I want everything from life or nothing at all.
I am disgusted by lives that go on come what may, by the promise of a humdrum happiness provided I don’t ask too much of life.
I want everything!
I want everyday things: vessels of stainless steel, spoons with secrets cast upon their skin, bread from three days ago left untouched in the fridge and fruits I’ve plucked from orchards of ill repute.
I want my garden of earthly delights with all the seven deadly sins for company.
No, I am not meek or humble, pure in heart or selfless. And I don’t want paradise with its happy endings and countless beginnings.
I want a feast of sin and flesh. I want this world, not the next.
I want this body with its cellulite and sensuality and not some untainted other. I want this weight, these lines that stretch across my skin, the rings that mark my tender age, the scars that mark my experience and all the wounds that never healed.
I want a share of everything that’s mine and everything that isn’t.
I want a tongue that’s unrestrained, uncensored, rife with obscenities.
I want Miles on his trumpet wailing as I wail.
I want you with all your empty promises, you with your tongue of fire.
I want your house too.
I want your vessels with their receding sheen, the cane furniture you inherited from some other lifetime and your bed that’s lined with all your dreams.
Give me your cotton shirts and your dirty linen and I will show you the terror of a housewife. I’ll fill your kitchen with blueberry pies and make you all kinds of spicy combinations to please your seasoned appetite.
I’ll accost you with the violence of everyday things: morning tea and evening single malt in crockery I’ve inherited from generations of hospitality.
I’ll ring roses around your bed and polish your floors with my lust.
I’ll inscribe my name on all your letterheads, wreak havoc on your household and punish you with my words.
I’ll poison you with my body. Everywhere you tread, on cobblestone footpaths or unmade beds, my scent will be sure to follow.
I’ll mark your body with bruises that will glow in the naked sunlight.
I’ll haunt you with more happiness than you can bear. Nothing humdrum or predictable, everyday a surprise.
You could never complain about spiders in your study or dust among your books. Your bathroom will reek of my peach-scented lotion and every morning, my toothbrush will stand erect to salute you, my beloved hostage. And every night, when you’re home from your escapades, I’ll hold you captive once more. I’ll take the sandals off your feet, for the ground I tread on is holy.
I’ll infest your house with paintings and I’ll scribble over your decaying walls in rich calligraphy. I’ll infuse your bedroom with my perfumed clothes and swollen dreams and the drudgery of my imagination.
Who are you to question my motives?
Who are you to cure my despair or channel my outburst into more creative streams?
I cannot be tamed or trimmed, or cut down to size.
I am larger than life.
I am fierce, violent, resplendent.
Come smell me.
Come watch me burn.
I am combustible.
Flammable.
And I want.
I want. I want. I want.