I think often of my cravings:
the calls for beef and pork, sugar, fat,
the need to express my subverted sexuality
in the most fantastic way possible --
I think of them collected into a neurosis,
how their influence has travelled to every corner of my life
so that any time there's happiness inevitably there is shame.
This is what I'm used to. I'm not sure I understand what healthiness is.
I often think of what it would be like
to indulge those cravings without remorse,
to walk into a restaurant, order the biggest, roundest thing on the menu,
watch it drip onto my table before I take that first bite
and feel simply bliss without the the cricket gnawing my ear.
One day, maybe, release will be just that
without the burden of additional sin, the fundamental knowledge
that what feels right is always wrong,
that little sting that keeps me from surrendering to that tingle of contentment.
Until then, I'll keep piecing together moments here and there
where just this is enough and the mystical feeling of
consequence-free enjoyment never enters the equation.
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