In the motion of waiting, my inside rot.
In the action of breathing, the air grows hot.
And in the patience of watching fools after fools
None dared to reach and claw on my skin.
To swore off touch aside from the skin my fingers hold.
To swore off hearts aside from mine that beats within me.
I fear I do not crave for human flesh anymore.
I am my own temple and my own worshipper.
Mirthfully to celebrate of choosing to celibate—
The liberation of the hunger that consumes me.
Perhaps, this is the love I was meant to find.
To beat alone in this world filled with others—
Unrhythmically, matching no ones rhythm but my own.
Amidst the crowds of beating hearts, mine beats in dissonance. Forcing my own to match someone else's pace never worked for me, and chasing fools after fools for decades tired my body.
Love was something I was willing to give, yet not one dared to receive. Now, I choose celibacy as the greatest form of intimacy. The skin I hold is the only skin I want to touch; the heart that beats is the only rhythm I want to match. I want someone to claw at my skin and reveal the secrets that lie deep beneath the surface. Yet, patience is the poison that would **** me—inside out.
I wonder what sins I have committed over the timelines my phantom dared to live, for the atonement I have to face today. What a price to pay for this timeline. It would've been fun to be adorned, maybe in the next one.
