Feeding Intimacy

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The chase included all the delicacies love snacks on, fills up on even.

I kept coming back for more. You provided, I was hooked.

I could be satiated whenever I needed.

You kept your buffet stocked. A beautiful presentation.

I never felt hungry, rather I was full.

Years went by, I remained well fed.

We were happy. For a bit.

Then more years passed and the spread was less colorful, it didn’t speak to me.

And then, I began to notice less and less on the table before me, even some spoilage.

Hmmm, I’m hungry. That’s new.

I mentioned the pangs, I cried that I was hungry, I hurt going to sleep at night.

You ordered take-out, we ate together. For a bit.

Going down it felt like fake food, second-hand and ABC cud.

A temporary fix to fill a gaping hole, only as required.

But then you starved me. I lost so much.

When I started nourishing myself, I determined the menu.

I think I’ll pass on the next feast.

I’d like to live.

 

 

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Cook, Meditate, F#@k

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Pausing my distressed state, I distracted myself diving deeply into gastronomy.  Immersed and focused on fusing the flavors of carefully selected ingredients, I relished the finished product. Ingesting my creation, finding enjoyment in it, allowing a small measure of an easement to occur in my current state of dysfunction.

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The problem at hand begged for inner reflection. Waking every morning was a ritual of opening the eyes and viewing out my bedroom window, just staring at the trees and listening to the sounds of nature. Sometimes for hours. Processing, mulling over and remembering every moment of pain. What felt like agony and torture initially gradually allowed a sense of understanding to move into the grey matter.

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A deep need to release anger and frustration created a passion for a familiar act. I required the physical focus, a hungry attack on the flesh. It was an attempt at duplicating intensity, replacing pain with pleasure. And it was had.

The process helped.

I got through my trauma.