Work Text:
Need is such a weak willed word. It’s short, callous, and overall falls fast in the mouth as if you’re trying to hide the vulnerability of yourself behind your front teeth.
No.
I do not need her.
I could brace myself against the flowery tones and the roll of my tongue when I say desire. The way the breath escapes in an attempt to flourish the thought, extending it out within the room on heated breath and a softly opened mouth. But that too, would be inaccurate.
I can attempt to articulate my feelings into words but none of them resonate with the way my heart bursts when I see her. The gentle moments we spend together that make my blood burn up through my chest and the air escape my lungs without being exhaled. Her smile traps the air there, held in the embrace of her warmth. Instead of searching for an escape I draw in a deep breath that comes out as a tremble and I fight back against my heart, losing my true purpose. My composure.
I-- I don’t need her.
Perhaps I simply want her. But want is a curt word, ending on a pop. It’s a short term proclamation that ends in a puff of air that resides in the forefront of the mouth. It is a word begrudging of neglect once obtained and my body would not do me the courtesy of abandoning her. With fevered fingers I indulge in tangling in her hair by the fistfull, pulling it back until she makes that golden sound. No. Want is far too small a word.
It falls as short in tone as need.
I can’t begin to define what happens when she looks into my eyes with genuine affection. She trusts me and my council, and I shatter. I shatter into thousands of tiny fragments that reflect back the many truths I have withheld to show me who I am. Who I was? No. The deep pools of trust she gives me--- I feed off of them. I drink it in and spill myself in turn, overflowing with greed. I am her reservoir of knowledge, always guarded and protected by the unseen corners of my mind. But, I find myself allowing the real truth to slip through the dam, like tiny cracks and rivulets that condense on the surface. She’s been clever, and attentive, and strong. I both fear and long for her to see the truth I have laid out for her in tiny admissions.
I refuse to think the word that rushes through my pulse. That rolls my shoulders forward with longing when she comes too close. I will not say the word that makes clever use of its consonants. The word that pushes the admission out of my mouth by forcing the tone across my lower lip held back and then permitted across my upper teeth. It betrays me. The movement of my mouth releases the end of the word in a way that almost vaults the confession faster to her ears. It leaves me open and willing to tell her anything.
I want to tell her everything.
I need to fight this feeling with all of who I am; hide my weakness tight in my throat. I have to rebuild these walls she so easily collapsed and make myself again in iron. I have to find the right words that will force this wall to collect between us. But the thought of losing her--- I.
I don’t want to need her.