I think maybe it is that my heart is too big. Maybe it is that my veins are too thin-walled. My blood wants to spill. I'm designed to turn inside out; it is inevitable. What is it? Why is it me specifically? It has to be this, that my blood wants out. My heart wants to jump out of my chest, all the time. I want to prostrate myself before you constantly and endlessly.

I think that this has to be it: I want it too bad. I want so much to show you how great you are, how eminently capable I am of loving and forgiving you. My generosity travels through time. You don't know me yet, but I forgive you. I want so much to send my love back in time, too, defend you from the cruelty of the schoolyard bully, somehow send my love for you to your lonely childhood, care for you in the way your parents simply were not able to. I want to make up for lost time. Let me take responsibility for your suffering. Let me know. I can know.

It is at least unseemly. The words I use most often are desperate, cloying, creepy, annoying, gross, pathetic. These are the words I use to describe myself. You won't hurt my feelings by using them on me, I chose them. (What is that book, is it Story of O, where the person brings their partner the tools they want their partner to whip them with? I feel like this). I know I am pathetic. I am truly desperate. I am unseemly, cloying, creepy. I do not have time for decorum, so it may annoy you. I refuse to pretend to be aloof. I won't even try. Let's give up the ghost. I want it too bad to hide it. There's no point. Why pretend not to want it? Why not announce your desires? Does this make you feel gross, that I am so forward? It doesn't cost me anything.

That's not true, it actually does cost me a lot. Kind of a lot. Maybe my wanting it (wanting you) so very badly, my outsized hunger precludes us from getting to know each other. Maybe I am so eager to please that I am not worth you deigning to acknowledge me. I think perhaps I do look my best when I am striving. How As the song goes: "When I get what I want, I never want it again." The medicine could be worse than the disease. I might be working too hard to keep you away from me.

I suppose what I mean is that I have it figured out. I know, it's okay. You don't have to tell me, you don't have to say anything, I understand. I bet you feel guilty, huh? I think you do, you must. Maybe just a little bit. Maybe you don't know it yet. I think you're scared to feel bad for me because then it reminds you what we might have this in common, right? This insatiable desire which threatens to undermine everything. I might be an example (for you) of what happens when you let desire run rampant. You might think that I am what happens when you set yourself on fire. You're right. Some of us want to be lit up. Some of us want to be heated, to be near the Flamers. But not me I have always known I wanted to be like a candle or a bomb, be the hottest, burn myself up. Right? Light your path. I am the footlights. I am on fire.

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