He said, ‘Fill me with your words.’ So I did.
I filled pages. I filled him with my poetry, lines so lyrical and liquid they made his heart ache. I filled him with stories, the ones I bury behind my bones, sacred and hollow.
I filled him with my deepest fears, my pains, my ponderings, unfiltered and flawed across the page. I filled him until he was overflowing, until words poured out of his eyes like tears. Until my hands were red and raw but I kept writing. I kept filling. Up and up and more and deeper. Until he begged me to stop, pulled my hand away and kissed the raised writer’s bump with his tender lips.
‘Please,’ he said, ‘please don’t hurt yourself.’
But darling, passion is painful. You may be full, but I’ll never be emptied.