Them. They’re what I want to be. I can almost feel it, barely out of grasp. I can feel my fingers touching it, brushing it, not quite able to make out its texture. Sometimes I think I could grab it, could shape myself to match it. Mold who I am, at the same time trying to throw away everything else. They can feel. They truly feel. He ( and I bet she, too) feels everything. That intensity. I want to feel every inch, every ripple, every ebb and flow as the emotions take me. I want sorrow, joy, pain, fear, loss, ecstasy, love. Devotion. Loyalty. The intensity, that’s how I hope to discover how to live. I want their strength. I imagine her, skin deep and glowing, that burning intensity in her eyes, a miniature sun. She takes no shit from anyone. Her independence, fierce wildness, sureness of herself. His quiet, simmering lust. A lust for living. He makes me feel everything more strongly, instills that same lust within me. It’s quivering, shivering, shaking, chills all over, making me cry with just the feeling of it all. I want to be like them. I want to feel my life the way they feel theirs. Life. I don’t feel alive. Everything feels dampened, fake, emulated. Like trying to act out the barest shadow of emotions I get. I’m praying they’ll teach me. That she’ll give me her strength, he’ll give me his control. I want to be transformed, hyacinths, a river, a laurel, my skin cut off while I hang upside down, bleeding my emotions and my pain. This I pray to you, holy gods. Give me this gift if nothing else. Teach me how to live. Pierce my heart, far-shooting. Fill my ears with the sweet melody of my cries. Slice me open, bleeding in the grass and dirt, everything that’s not me, not utterly myself dripping down my thighs. Fill my veins with your light, your fire. Strike me down, over and over, until I am born again. Make me into myself, make me a reflection of you. This I ask of you, Destroyers. Destroy me utterly, until I’m no more and that remains is myself.