The walls of my throat are rough and thirsty, like the mountain face crusting in the sun.
I crave blood.
I crave dizzying heights that shoot signals down my thighs, bloated forearms that entomb a pulse, shins that change from red
as my capillaries heal themselves, scars webbing the veins on the back of my hand as a reminder that I once bled.
I crave life.
God, show me this carcass has a heart. Have I switched off my humanity?
All I feel is emptiness and an insatiable blood-lust.
I came to feed on this life: mountain air and sun, piney beer and barbecues, Old Town meanderings and live music and dogs and friends and potheads.
Instead I’m drying out. Desire drained by my disappointment and a suckling apathy, desiccating as my lifeblood is sucked by demons from a dimension I cannot see.
How do I fight back to my first desire? How do I fight for any feeling at all when the pain compels me to shut it out. Turn it off. Don’t engage. If you don’t feel, you can’t be hurt.
I have lived a thousand years in one year and know that I’d rather feel pain than feel nothing at all,
that the dying is better than the not-dying, if I want love.
Love says to me, “Whoever feeds of my flesh and drinks of my blood will know true life.”
My spirit is willing but my flesh is weak, turning to its own lust for filling.
I can’t find life anywhere else and I am afraid to die; afraid to leave this pseudo-living for the Love who creates humanity and resurrects the dead.
Love says to me, “Abide in me and obey my command, that you love as I have loved you, dying to yourself so others may find life.”
I can’t find a love anywhere else that would open its veins at the wrists and bleed out for the life of the world.
My heart is not ready for what love requires of me.
So I will make the small choice I can:
Feel, or don’t feel.
Desire, or don’t desire.
Love always moves where there is desire, to bring me to:
My blood, or his.
Which will lead me to:
Death, or not-death.
And maybe, when I have tasted Life, I will be willing to die.
Then my heart will be ready for what love requires.