I love you by Madison Moser

We, as human beings, are constantly hungry. We are starving and desperate for the thing that fills us up and makes everything more bearable. It makes tragedy a little more tragic and hunger a little more passionate. What we would give to forever sink into the arms of our mothers and be cradled like the rest just doesn’t matter. Our egos need to be carried in a pocket or coddled in a spoon. They are the eggshells we choose to walk on and destroy. No matter how hard we try, walking on eggshells, or even running at that, cannot be done on empty. We need to be fed. We are like predators who foam at the mouth and follow no rules besides the ones from nature herself. Hunters hunt victims and hunt we do. We leave nothing but bone yet walk away with satisfaction and leftovers in our teeth. All this primitive labour can be justified by three intoxicating bites. It’s a dish best served tender and warm, not hot, not cold. A meal like this takes time to prepare and the right person to prepare it. After all, you can’t just say, “ I love you.” You can taste nothing sweeter than this. Like a cup of tea, it comforts your longing heart. To celebrate such a meal, dessert must be had. By dessert, we mean sex. By celebrate, we mean drink, and drink we do. A meal, a phrase, so tragically, irrationally indulgent is served to every guest at the dinner table. You always mind that it’s not yours alone, but as long as you get your fair share, you stay seated and kind. Before you ask for seconds, you scarf down the butterflies as if its socially acceptable to eat butterflies. “I love you.” Just like mother used to make. One then licks his lips and the now empty plate before him. You shamelessly gorge yourself on a man’s love until you must unbutton your pants. But then, boredom creeps in; a deeply bitter dish. You’ve grown tired of this recipe, once bold became predictable. You’re practically annoyed by his signature touch. “ I love you” just isn’t impressive anymore and for you, its now more than just hunger, you want to be impressed. Without a doubt worth recognition, you steal the chef’s dignity and the rest of his supply. You want to say you feel bad, but you’re nowhere near done with your fix. The residue of those words are memories for your tongue and remind you of what once was. To give up is to give in and starvation is an ugly way to die. So, you move on. Move on down the street to the next open seat at the next dinner table. Slamming your fists on the table cloth says everything without a word. You’ve tried patience and you just don’t have the palette for it. It’s time to be aggressive and straight forward and greedy. You want those words that toss you like a salad between exhilaration and euphoria. They melt in your mouth and dance down your throat only to bloom in your stomach. A delicate, divine flower. No syrup or sugar sends your soul quite like this one. To say its addictive is an insult to its true, indelible power. Once you get a taste, the cravings are unmatched by those of cocaine, liquor, or violence. It can seem dangerously coy and simply dangerous. You can try to hide it but there are crumbs around your mouth. I know you’ll try but you can’t shame yourself for being human. Love is our mother’s milk. There are worse things to overindulge. Unlike nicotine, love can change the world. A word like this makes heavy feel light and sends insecurity away. So, you’ll gladly take the stains on your shirt and the juice running down your neck if it means that heavy will feel light and insecurity will be sent away. Now shamelessly, you will stuff yourself until you can’t see your toes. You’re repulsed by your body, but you cover it with clothes. Looking the chef in his wild eyes, you demand the dish tenderly warm, but at this point, you’ll take hot and cold too. Every intimate word, whether honest or shady, courses through your veins and keeps you from deflating. Not a single bite makes you better or worse, just keeps you occupied. Sickness and vomit begin to rot the flower once in full bloom. But you keep getting served and you keep eating. Gluttony doesn’t even begin to cover it. You’ve been fattened up like a prize winning pig with his affection and his lust. Among other things, free will has always rambled beneath your belt. Nausea never seizes to screech like a kettle in the front of your mind. Therefore, I dare you to get up and leave. Just try. Leave with what teeth you have left and refuse to be held hostage any longer. Get up and walk away. Have your legs forgotten how? I can only imagine how quickly they’d die if you surrendered to the pocket or the spoon. And surrender you did. So you’re stuck. Tied down by need and kept there by charm. A taste better than salt or any kind of chocolate comes around like clock work. And you’re bored and unimpressed and your heart is simply tired. But you’re stuck. Stuck long enough to now have a ring around your finger. But you’re woo’d and fed and tucked into bed. There are worse places to be like where you’ve been before. At least for me, I’d rather be fat than lonely. You look down at your meal with equal gratitude and disgust and whisper to yourself, “ I love you.” Its a shame you don’t believe it anymore. But he cooks it anyways and you eat it just the same. With a promise like a handcuff and a hunger like a passion, all you can wish is to age gracefully as you eat and eat and eat.