Wanting Kills

Can you die of wanting?  Try putting that question into a Google search and the internet is terrified you’re contemplating suicide.  Want to die?  Here’s help.  Please don’t do it. 

But that’s not what I’m asking. Like, at all.

Can you die of wanting someone or something?  Or something with someone?

Because it sure as hell feels like someone took a knife and stabbed it right into your heart, then started twisting that fucker with a maniacal laugh.

And the worst part of it is that the Joker here is you.  You did it to yourself.  You let your head wonder one day How would it be to kiss them? Then, before you know it, you’ve wandered farther, imagining the kiss, feeling their hands tangled in your hair, leaning into them and letting your eyes fall closed.  You think you can feel their breath ghost across your skin as they whisper in your ear, “I’ve always wanted you, too.”

As if that’s not bad enough, it makes real life even more impossible.  Seeing them, talking to them, lifting a hand to touch them, only to realize at the last second that this is the really real world, and you don’t have the right.

But, God, you just want to touch them so bad…  it’s physically painful to withdraw.

Half the time, they’ll be talking about something, and you’ll be nodding and staring intently, seemingly deeply involved in the conversation, yet only half of their words land because you’re too busy being mesmerized by the movement of their mouth, by the light in their eyes, to really listen.  And yet, a part of you not only hears every word, but also every nuance and inflection, and registers them all somewhere in the back of your brain on the reel you replay when they’re not there.  Because you love how animated they are when they talk about something they love, and you realize that you should never talk about them (so that no one can see how animated you are when you talk about something you love).

So, they’re sitting there with you, and they’re talking about something, anything really, and you’re afraid to move, to breathe, to think. Because if you do, you might not be able to stop. You want to surge out of your seat, close the distance between you, take their face in your hands, and kiss them.  You want to lift them up, carry them to the nearest bed and stake your claim, touching and tasting and feeling every inch. You want to throw caution to the wind.

But you can’t.  You can’t do any of that. Because what if…

What if you make a small move, a tiny gesture, and they pull away, disgusted?  Because, after all, you’re basically nothing anyway.  What if they see you as a sibling or they’ve relegated you to the dreaded friend zone?  And then you try to hold their hand, just a tiny thing, really, and they pull away.  What if you show your hand and they don’t even want to play cards anymore?  So, you can’t chance even that much.  You can’t risk an errant touch, because what if it all comes crumbling down?

So, you sit, and you stew, and you fester, and you fantasize. And in your dreams, they haunt you and in real life, they taunt you, and none of it is intentional, but it feels so goddamn painful, but you can’t stay away from them because, dear God, let me just have them a little bit, just sit in their presence, just hear their voice, but that’s almost too much, and … and … and …

So you sit as they talk, rapt but lost. And you do nothing. Because you’re a coward.

And you’re dying, just a little bit, by degrees, by a thousand cuts.  Because wanting kills.