I have never been in love.
I have never felt anything in my bones.
I have never been depressed.
I have never felt a need to spill my pain across blank pages.
I have never wanted to hurt myself.
I have never seen my soul mirrored in that of another.
I have never wanted to peel away the skin of my lover to know his every layer.
I have never felt like I was drowning in a room full of friendly faces.
I have never fucked a man I don’t know just to feel something.
I have never fucked a woman.
I have never felt a poem alive inside me, eating away at my innards, clawing its way out.
I have never thought of running away, changing my name and never looking back.
I have never had long and profound conversations with birds.
I have never held a beating heart in my hand and squeezed, watching the blood drip from my fingers to linoleum floors.
I have never had You.
I have never counted anyone’s freckles.
I have never been lost without anyone.
I have never had an orgasm that lifted me out of my own body until I was floating above myself, enjoying the sensation on two planes.
I have never dreamed of flying or falling.
I have never tossed myself into the ocean at midnight, thrashing against jagged rocks until every bone in my body was broken, all for an unrequited love.
I have never been lost in the eyes of anyone.
I have never felt truly alone.
I have never felt truly hopeless.
I have never lain with my lover on tangled sheets, amongst hardbacks and notepads, and talked of worldly, esoteric pursuits.
I have never compulsively plucked my eyebrows to nothingness, bitten my nails down to stubs nor torn my clothes to shreds awaiting anyone’s phone call.
I have never turned to face the sun with shaded eyes, staring into distant horizons, imagining you there.
I have never lain in a bed of rose petals, in a room full of candles, sipping wine while being orally pleasured by anyone.
I have never found truth at the bottom of a whisky bottle.
I have never written poems on bar napkins.
I have never felt a compulsion to write anything, a crippling need, that was so intrinsic to my very being that I felt I would rather die than give up my pen.
I have never done any of these things.
But I have written about all of them.
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