The hand that feeds me, how it burns…
I want to feel the gentle rhythms of your breathing, and the warmth of your bare skin while I’m lying beside you.
I wish I wrote the way I thought
With maddening hunger
I’d write to the point of suffocation
I’d write myself into nervous breakdowns
Manuscripts spiralling out like tentacles Into abysmal nothing
And I’d write about you
A lot more
Than I should.
- Benedict Smith