My body is broken into pieces, punished for its existence, segmented into parts of varying relevance. I become a project, an object with symbolic worth, like a coin.
His eyes catch reflected light and dazzle me. His hands look as though they might touch me. I am tense with expectation and desire.
This love he shows me, this adoration that occasionally breaks across my sky, is no substitute for the sweet, cool dirt beneath my feet.
I know. Yet I seek to be a cup and him the water. I seek to be a frame and him the window.
His eyes lose focus, look through me.
My breath is like a bird beating wings against a barred cage but
I maintain composure.
He is a traveller seeking an open doorway. I am a doorway. He loves me for my welcoming, my shelter.
He is a hunter in search of a kill. He wants good meat for his table.
I am that meat. He loves me for my nourishment. My ability to ward off hunger.
I am a cold night. I am a rainstorm. I am the dead of winter.
His love is a lie. I eat it instead of food. I drink it instead of water.
I cannot survive.