Empty

Empty

My mind tells my heart that love can only exist 

 in neatness, in innocence, in unmarred flesh. 

My mind tells my heart that love can only exist 

 in a lithe, empty body. 

Primed and preened and pampered 

 to be filled to the brim with the body of another.

It's desire.

Clean, spotless, refined desire.

But what if love is swampy and messy, filthy, bitter. 

We're not filling each other, we expand each other—

 large and we take up space and our blemishes are large too and on display

 and we try again and again to

 fit.

The emptier I am, the flatter I am, the more transparent and uninterrupted I am,

 the easier I feel it would be to love me. 

If I reached this ideal, 

 would I be able to access love then? 

If someone else could so easily access me?

Me 

 open, pliable and blank. 

Is that where my love will exist?

In hunger.

I'm hungry. 

My insides are empty,

 ready to be filled.  

And that's the poem! This is actually just a slightly edited version of a journal entry of mine.