There was a time I wandered through your garden,
starving.
And you—each of you—offered yourselves
as fruit swollen with promise.
I reached for you with cracked hands,
bit in with blind hunger,
and called the bitterness flavor.
You were beautiful.
God, you were beautiful.
But so is nightshade,
so is the blossom that blooms on the mouth of a grave.
Your sweetness was lacquered in arsenic,
your nectar dripped with need.
You tasted of almosts
and if-onlys
and don’t-you-dares
disguised as love.
I swallowed you whole.
Thank you for that.
Truly.
Because I needed the poison.
I needed to tremble.
I needed to wake at 3 a.m.
with my gut twisted into questions,
my lips still red from the lie.
You see,
each of you grew in soil watered by my self-doubt.
You thrived on my silence,
my contortion,
my careful pruning of self
to fit the shape of your hunger.
I tended you like a fool tends a ****
thinking it would blossom into medicine.
But you were never sustenance.
You were spectacle.
And I—
I was the banquet host,
laying myself out
course after course,
watching you feast
and ask what else I had to offer.
No more.
The garden is closed now.
I’ve uprooted every vine
that once climbed my spine like a lover.
I’ve tilled the rot,
turned the decay into compost,
and from it—
from it—
a single fig tree has risen.
Quiet. Modest.
But true.
She feeds me.
Not with frenzy,
but with fullness.
Not with hunger,
but with presence.
Her fruit doesn’t burn.
It lingers.
So to each bitter harvest:
Thank you.
Thank you for sickening me.
For seducing me.
For starving me so thoroughly
that when love finally arrived,
I could taste it—
and know it was real.
You were never the feast.
You were the lesson.
And I am no longer hungry.
— Formerly Yours,
Now Fed
Jul 16, 2025
Jul 16, 2025 at 2:24 AM UTC
There was a time I wandered through your garden,
starving.
And you—each of you—offered yourselves
as fruit swollen with promise.
I reached for you with cracked hands,
bit in with blind hunger,
and called the bitterness flavor.
You were beautiful.
God, you were beautiful.
But so is nightshade,
so is the blossom that blooms on the mouth of a grave.
Your sweetness was lacquered in arsenic,
your nectar dripped with need.
You tasted of almosts
and if-onlys
and don’t-you-dares
disguised as love.
I swallowed you whole.
Thank you for that.
Truly.
Because I needed the poison.
I needed to tremble.
I needed to wake at 3 a.m.
with my gut twisted into questions,
my lips still red from the lie.
You see,
each of you grew in soil watered by my self-doubt.
You thrived on my silence,
my contortion,
my careful pruning of self
to fit the shape of your hunger.
I tended you like a fool tends a ****
thinking it would blossom into medicine.
But you were never sustenance.
You were spectacle.
And I—
I was the banquet host,
laying myself out
course after course,
watching you feast
and ask what else I had to offer.
No more.
The garden is closed now.
I’ve uprooted every vine
that once climbed my spine like a lover.
I’ve tilled the rot,
turned the decay into compost,
and from it—
from it—
a single fig tree has risen.
Quiet. Modest.
But true.
She feeds me.
Not with frenzy,
but with fullness.
Not with hunger,
but with presence.
Her fruit doesn’t burn.
It lingers.
So to each bitter harvest:
Thank you.
Thank you for sickening me.
For seducing me.
For starving me so thoroughly
that when love finally arrived,
I could taste it—
and know it was real.
You were never the feast.
You were the lesson.
And I am no longer hungry.
— Formerly Yours,
Now Fed
