F. Gabdon: On Cravings.

Truth is, I crave people.
I crave the memories,
the moments, the feelings.
My entire body almost wills itself
back to people and places.
Some nights,
I have to tell it to be still.
To hold still a moment.
Have you ever had to do that?
Talk your body and heart out of somebody?
Soft like a whisper,
warm winter shower,
reminding it;
they are not good for us baby.
they don’t love us like we love them.
they don’t need us the same.
we can’t go back there again.”

F.gabdon (via thegabdonwrites)


You have moved on; or rather, you are moving on– because you never quite get used to falling out of love, because love is not something you pass over like a stretch of land, or a breaching bridge. No. You walk through it, like a journey, counting your steps. Because loving doesn’t happen in a day, it grows; and healing from it is a process, not a phase. But on some days, you slip. A stranger’s smile, one word, the sound of your neighbour’s laughter; or when you get least lucky, the object of your grief; you know how this minute they want away and the next they want in on your life, they want to save you, yet your instincts tell you they are exactly what you need saving from– and a familiar dull ache takes a hold of you, filling the corners and edges of your heart and soul, spreading its tentacles, tearing down your walls. Confusion! Frustration! And the healing stalls, and the process halts. You reach back out at the barrage of memories, and will yourself to remember what went wrong and how; and what steps you took and why, and for one second, you are tempted to think that maybe it’s you– maybe it was you; maybe you were too fast, or maybe too slow. Yet, if you get lucky, you see that it wasn’t you. That you loved, and you cared, and sometimes that’s all that matters. That you gave your all when you could; that when you were ready, they were not ready too. And that you cannot keep on breaking and healing over the same thing. That is not love, that is the worst form of depreciation. But these things are not quite easy to cast away like simple arithmetic. No. Your heart is an un-seeing, un-listening, unrelenting, acquiescing, and forgiving thing; yet even as you remind it ever so often: “they are not good for us baby, they don’t love us like we love them, they don’t need us the same, we can’t go back there again”, you know where you want to be is with them. In spite of it all. Despite everything.

Because love stinks, but you fancy the stench it leaves behind.

Love stinks


© The Short Black Girl, 2016.


8 thoughts on “F. Gabdon: On Cravings.

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