My grandmother says there are birds that catch fish in their mouths, that fly miles and miles across acres of sea to drop the food in the waiting mouth of a whale just to watch it swallow. That hunger can be something so large it’s consuming.
In the tidal pools beneath my skin there is always something swimming, minnows flitting in the currents of my veins as a reminder not to open them. Geography is brutal. My skin is a map I’ve tried too hard to tear apart and reassemble, have tried to move whole continents from one side to another in the span of mere minutes.
Love opens me like a wound and drains until everything is gone. I am starving for something more than whole, more broken than something already falling apart, like the moon reflects off the water until the point when the water no longer accepts it.
I’ll always be waiting with my mouth open just like those whales, hoping for someone to come and fill it.