“I’m not enough.” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard it. The lament of the insecure. The plea for attention. The moment when desire, sex, or love stops growing. Enough drags us down to huddle in austerity. “I’m not enough for you,” as though anyone could be, or should be.
“How awful would that be? How terrible to live surrounded by the stark, sharp, hollowness of things that simply were enough?” (The Slow Regard of Silent Things. Patrick Rothfuss)
I don’t want to be enough. I want you clamoring, insatiable, aching for more. I want “let me catch my breath” to crumble into a moment that means more than breathing. I have let you break me open like a pomegranate, and no, of course you don’t owe me anything but I would be proud to stain your mouth, your hands. To have your fingers scrape every last inch of me. It’s not greedy if I’m grateful. Enough? If I consumed you whole it would not be enough, and why would I want it to?
I don’t want to be enough. I want to be too much, overwhelming, terrifying. I want you to need to step back, attenuate with something or someone else to keep from being totally subsumed. I want to be the fever dreams you can’t quite remember and can’t stop thinking about. I am a natural disaster, terrible, unsafe. If you are who I think you are, you long to chase storms. If it is too much and you still want more, I will say yes. If it destroys me I will still say yes.
If I am enough? Then you’ve had enough of me. Move on. Go gently, if you can, but move on. If I want you, I won’t think just enough is worth your time.