“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.
I’ve been in bed for hours. I should be sleeping, but I can’t stop thinking about your mouth.
I’m thinking of kissing you. The lightest touch of lip against lip, not quite a kiss but charged, waiting. It takes me back to Millikan, to drop of oil hovering still in the air, to an impossible calm. Hard, bruising kisses while we crash into each other, fumbling out of clothes or just yanking them out of the way. Long, slow, good-night kisses that can’t be allowed to end because when they do I have to leave. Kissing you while you laugh. You kissing me to devour the screams when you hit me, when I come, sometimes both at the same time.
I’m thinking of the way you damn near maul my ears. Your breath and tongue invasive. My body wants to pull away: it’s too intimate, too much a breach of my defenses. I can’t be still. The writhing makes you growl, so close you might as well be in my own head. It’s invasive, excruciating, sends a terrible need shivering across the whole surface of my skin. I can’t stand it. I don’t want it to stop.
I’m thinking of your teeth. Anywhere and everywhere never biting quite hard enough. I can feel the restraint in your jaw when you close it on my collarbone, your beard scratching against my skin. When I look in the mirror in the morning I want to find your bite written on my skin somewhere among the bruises.
You’re in my head. Not just on my mind but my whole nervous system. I want so much out of so little time: conversations and meals and projects and scenes and places we could go.
Tonight, it’s simpler than all that. I’m missing you, of course, and wishing that tonight for once you could have been free as planned, but I’m not worried about any of it. I just can’t quite seem to stop thinking about your mouth.