When you want something badly enough, you forget its flaws. In fact, the deceit of desire lies in its ability to make you think that nothing else matters and nothing else exists. By the time you open up your legs to be its whore, you’re not using protection.
By the time he got to me, neither was I.
I wanted him. I wanted him bad. I wanted him to complete the holes I thought I couldn’t fill inside my soul, so there were no barricades whatsoever when he knocked on the door of my heart, laughing, and entered with no resistance. No guards to stop him. No alarm to warn me. No 911 that I felt the need to call.
I thought he was breathtaking blue sky and the flight of an eagle’s wing on a thermal rolled into one. I thought his kisses tasted like a soury-sweet lemon flavoured gummy bear, because when he would kiss me, he would bite my lip; then pull, gently first then harder, the line just before it crossed into pain, and I would dance with him on that edge when my pulse was racing and he held me teetering over the abyss of him.
But that was an abyss I did not know or see or understand – an abyss I romanticized for the sake of my preconceived notions and motions of relationships and what I thought heartspeak should be but wasn’t. A darkness I chose without knowing its blackness and its all-consuming need.
I did not know. And because I didn’t bother to fully examine the whys and hows of what I craved with abandon, desire desired me – and had me.