on excess

I find myself in need, in the most extreme sort as of late. I want everything in excess, overflowing or bone dry. There isn’t a sense to any of it, just a pressing inside my mind. I do not just want a drink, I want to stumble home a mess at four at a.m and waste the next day cursing the night. I do not just want to have sex, I want to sleep with everyone. I want to open their doors and find out what hands can do when you give them the green light. I want either every slice of cake ever made or not a single crumb to touch my lips; so full I ache, so starving I cave. It is as if I cannot find medium ground in which to spend my day. And by the night I am so exhausted by the drag of my need I fall asleep without deciding it is even time to end the day.

It is the oddest sort of way to be and it doesn’t feel entirely outside myself. It feels like I’ve struck a vein that was there all along with a soft beat beneath my wrist.

I have a leather bound journal I used to write secrets in. I don’t have secrets anymore. I don’t know what to write so it sits on my desk. Someone told me just the other day in a voice above a whisper that, secrets are what keep us alive. But I’ve been there before. I hoarded secrets in excess, piled them so high within my walls they became the walls themselves. There is a word for this. But needs and wants and secrets are all the same thing. They all hide and tug at the same spaces. And you are the only one that can see them in your reflection.

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