Hungry and wanting
I’m so fucking hungry for love,
to have my skin peeled back
by someone with gentle hands
who will watch the darkness pooled in my veins
dissipate once touched by oxygen,
and not turn away.
I would devour the pomegranate whole
and promise myself to the god of death
eyes open, trapped beneath the earth,
crushed by dirt and unable to breathe
to fill that vacant spot that still haunts my soul.
I want what the poets write about,
I want what the artists sing about,
I want to feel whole in a way I haven’t in years,
safe and understood and accepted
for and despite everything I’ve done.
But I’m so cautious now
that your hands might bruise
that I don’t let them settle at my waist.
I’m so fucking hungry for love
and I’m still like a child,
clutching at its skirts,
watching wide-eyed and wondering
By Maia Brown-Jackson
Maia Brown-Jackson is a cynical idealist who tries to save people and butterflies and bumblebees. She has a degree in human rights and is currently recovering from covid-19 in D.C.