Home with You
Who is your home away from home?
Home isn’t just a place for me. Home is the complexity of a feeling. Home is looking at you, eyelids heavy. You know what I want, and I know what you are. But I don’t know what you want—you could desire a feisty fuck just as much as you’d wish for an everlasting embrace. I want to be home with you.
Because home is also my face on your chest, a slightly tenacious combination of our sweat. Your chest hair teasing my lip, and your arm slowly releasing my neck as sleep consumes you.
And home is also our consumption of each other. Your consumption of my conception of anxieties as you eat me out, tongue tasting the flesh of my vulnerability, sucking away all my pain. Yet I know there’s still pain. The pain of you inside me, consuming the pain of you inside my head and the emotional shit most of us have inside. The recognition that we’re hurt; broken.
The fact that you are not mine…I’m yours, but you’re not mine. That’s home too.
I originally published this on Instagram, July 25, 2020. Two grammatical edits.