The third language; the lies we tell ourselves
Once upon a time there was a castle.
Glorious and majestic.
It filled its rooms steadily with princesses
who would never consider themselves lonely,
for they were waiting for love.
Long before love arrived,
I found desire.
Desire lived on fingertips.
Served by nameless women whose soft touches
left salty traces on my skin
and no remembrance to my mind.
Desire had no use for words.
At least, not the spoken kind.
When love arrived, it came with a language.
It wasn’t the language of the hands,
that touched my body long before I started touching myself.
It wasn’t the language of the words that we used
for lists,
for traffic signs,
for making sure we understood left from right.
This language could not be written.
It stretched into a dimension in which profoundness was hard to grasp.
Something beyond my linear and objective mind.
When I learned what love was,
I begged for desire to come back.
One night a sound appeared.
A bright sobbing rose from inside the castle.
One of the princesses cried.
The castle’s voracity had buried her with sisters.
Compressed and stacked side by side
with skin so white that one had to turn one's head away upon entering.
Who turns their head does not see what can grow.
What can visibly rise from a sea of limbs.
To see this, one must behold.
But no one did.
Ever.
She wasn’t crying because she was lonely.
I can assure you.
There were some that loved me.
You are eloquent, they said.
You are patient and intelligent.
Understanding, elegant, comforting and beautiful.
Forgiving.
Before they loved me I was none of these things.
After I was neither.
Needless to say. I did not love them back.
Love for me came unexpectedly.
Love came with a dimple.
It came with a mesmerizing smile,
and body parts all over the place.
It came with a world of words
that I lost when I gained it.
You are eloquent, she said.
Patient and intelligent.
Understanding, elegant, comforting and beautiful.
Forgiving.
You are right, I replied.
A thirst manifested itself.
It took root in every bit of skin I possessed and demanded satisfaction.
Breathing could only be done through her hands.
Warm hands that slid down my thighs,
pulverizing doubt with great pleasure.
I consumed her body.
I consumed it.
I hollowed out her skin.
Indulging in sleep without removing my lips.
Translating the heart through the desire of the flesh.
We suffered nevertheless
for never having enough.
For in this silent space
desire was insufficient.
Love, we found out,
could only exist
in what we exhaled.
In the words we used.
For making sure we understood.
“Deprive yourself of sleep and daylight,
construct on nothing but my words. For you are mine and I am yours,” she said.
Her words marked the time,
for she was there in flesh
and if not,
my mind was drenched in her flesh.
and she loved it,
and I did too.
And I allowed her love.
And she allowed me.
Until she did not.
Although it didn't start unexpectedly, it did randomly.
The crying stopped.
Eyes dried and motionlessness took its place.
The castle could not cope with so much motionlessness and split open.
Brick can also break.
Who knows this has little to fear.
There are stories we tell ourselves
and there are stories we tell each other.
The stories will suit us.
Will provide us with hope.
They will entertain us
but will not hold.
Nor will they become true.
“You must understand it’s nothing more than a story,”
love whispered, before she removed herself from me.
She removed herself.
Suffocating the air from my lungs.
She removed herself,
with distant eyes.
Where I suddenly saw:
a city.
If the city were human.
It would be a maze of lairs.
What is left behind may seem secluded.
It just depends on what you want to believe.
That she did it barefoot is at least true.
I've seen her do it.
She ran down the countless stairs and left the castle.
Her feet carried her over parched dirt roads
until she was spat into the nearest city.
A young man turned towards her
offering wine and peace with his words.
“You must never lock me up,” the princess said,
The man replied: Only if you give me your heart.
“What for?” the princess asked.
I will take it for safekeeping only.
“There is no difference,” she said.
He replied that this was not true.
She removed herself from me.
She removed herself.
She removed herself.
When love left,
I begged desire to come back.
Pushing my dying fingertips on countless bodies.
Forcing their hands for the oxygen I lacked.
Thrusting my skin into a void of whispers.
Imposing my damp kisses for those ready to receive.
And I removed myself from them.
I deprived.
I denied.
Them.
All.
They must understand it’s nothing more than a story.