The Wild Woman

Louisa Leontiades Love, Open Relationships

There are no words for a wild woman. In over eighty thousand of them, I am lost in the uselessness of meaningless vocabulary. How my heart clenches fiercely when I think of you. How your eyes on my body make my soul burn as if it were drenched in gasoline. How if I could, I would rip pieces of you and stitch them onto me, or preserve them in formaldehyde to look at in quieter times. The boundary of your body prevents me from plunging my hands inside you and smothering my skin with you. I want to devour you, merge your cells with mine, jump inside you and look out of your eyes to see me looking back at you. What would you see? Would you see me? Would you see underneath me?

But I know that to do so would be to destroy who you are. The gold I seek to grasp would evaporate if I were to possess you like I really want. And if I were to dive into you to bathe in the blood released by your dying body, I would only have succeeded in murdering what I love. I know this all even if the brutality of it still beckons me from the beyond. Because only that much violence can tame the insanity of my lust.

Sometimes I forget the frenzy of my cravings. The wild woman can be suppressed in the fleshy suit that the world so conveniently calls me. And I thank the gods that I don’t have to live with her all the time. For it would drive me mad. My madness for you would drown out all other considerations in my life, those that I also burn for, those whom I would die for. It’s better that I sink into my other preoccupations, tasks which don’t leave me breathless and wondering how I would survive without you. In those times I manage to process my emotions somehow, more constructively than succumbing to my desperate hunger to consume you. I fold the laundry. I do the dishes. I fry the onions neatly. Calmly, as if I am a different person.

And yet I know, one day, we will no longer be together. I don’t know how, and I don’t know when. Whether by death or desire. And in that moment, I will say quite sensibly ‘I wish you well dear one. Be happy.’ I will touch you on the cheek and smile. And I will deny the wild woman her voice and her power. Because if she were to come out, we would right then and there both die in lunacy… by my desire to have you with me, whether in life or in death, in heaven or in hell. So until then I will discuss with you what groceries we must buy and the times of the tram you must catch to be at that work ‘thing’. I will use the words which provide structure to our lives and those which serve to cage that wild woman. You will never know how she feels.

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