my hand in the jaws of a bear

your silence is hurting me

my mouth still tastes metallic from the last time we spoke. blood smears across my steering wheel, and in the headlights of passing cars it is shiny and dark as tar. i tap what is left of my fingers to the low roar of the music. beads of blood make the vents spit up iron-scented air. i can feel the puncture wounds oozing and dripping onto my jeans. 

as expected, they’re my fault.

i’m driving home in the light-polluted semi-darkness and thinking about you. how do i talk to you again, after what i said the last time we spoke? what did i say that provoked you so? my hand in the mouth of the bear, i run an inherent risk. to text you first is to test the boundaries of our gradually growing friendship. i push you to the point of retaliation. i mustn’t be surprised when you bite.

slower than a corpse rots, i hold my hand to the bear’s mouth. its—your—jaws open lazily, and i reach inside, unsure of what i am looking for. i am a pioneer; i want to go where no one has before. i want to be the first to say i know you, really know you. am i truly searching for something or am i acting purely off of adrenaline, a dare i set for myself, a yearning to know you that is only stoked by my younger sibling, push-til-they-crack attitude? how far can i reach before you crunch my hand? 

i have grasped for something that should not be touched, and in doing so i reap my punishment. your jaws clamp. my hand cracks like a muffled gunshot, then drips down your chin. we are at an impasse.

i stare unseeing at the road, trying to plan out our next conversation as a general plans for battle. you’re my newest platonic obsession, a tortuously distant acquaintance. i already care too much about what you think, want to impress you, be closer with you, know everything about you. can’t we skip the agony that is the reaching and pulling for answers phase, and get right to the midnight talks in my car phase? i want to quote you like i quote my favorites movies. i want to know what you think about the president, which animated character was your sexual awakening, if you’ve ever had homemade pizza. i want to know what makes you angry, scared, hopeless, impassioned, and why. will you give your answers up willingly, or must i scrabble helplessly at your clamped mouth? the latter, it seems. i will take the risk for you. i am drenched in yearning, i must unravel you right. now. i wipe my hand on my jeans, and the thighs are smeared a deepest wine color.

sorry sorry, i apologize. i am being uncasual about my fascination with you again. last time we spoke i was too passionate about it all, and i scared you off; your jaw has stayed shut ever since. i asked about a wound that was too deep, made a comment about us that went too far, and you snapped your bear maw closed around my hand. now i’m stuck, needing to know everything about you while also desperately wanting to get away, to regroup, unable to remove my thoughts from you, our conversation, what i said (what did i say specifically?). there is blood on my hands, and i know it is mine, but you must be hurting too. is it cruel to hope that you feel the pain as bitterly as i do? do you ache like i ache? do you care like i care?

i want to talk to you again, but am unable to come up with the right words to mend whatever hurt i inflicted. what hurt did i inflict? the jaws closed, my hand bleeds, but i still don’t understand why. i poked the bear: the bits of flesh dangling from my palm are proof of that. but what did i grasp at that made you maul me so? 

i think i frightened you with my wanton wanting, my carelessly invested words and my too-muchness. i’m sorry, new friend. please, i tap my fingers on the wheel and on my leg, please text me first. i am in a bind, i don’t know how to go from here. loosen your grip, i am begging and pleading. speak, and you release me. let me know you, and i will let you know me. do you care to know me? do i interest you at all? i want you to know me as well as i know myself, but maybe you don’t care to. i think that you not caring would hurt me more than any flesh wound. at least right now, with my hand punctured and mangled, i can bleed out. your caring runs dry, but my wanting never will. if you don’t reciprocate, i will rot forever in a pool of my own longing.

(no pressure, though. just text me when you get the chance).

i hope you can taste the blood of my yearning as you bite my hand. i hope you know how painful it is to be spilt. just release me, new friend, and we can know each other as equals. it is paralyzing, this primal thing, the foolish prey and wary predator. as long as you are silent, your jaws locked, i bleed and hurt and want. 

let me go, new friend. please. you’re hurting me. you’re killing me. i swear i won’t jab or prod anymore. if you so desire, it will only be gentle caresses and kind words from henceforth. i swear on my bleeding hand. 

just please, say something.

author’s note:

this is not about anyone in particular, it’s just about how chill and generally normal i am around people i need (need) to be friends with. i’m super nonchalant about those sorts of things, as you can see. very normal, very cool and laidback and very very very unbothered. just a generally chill person!

that being said, i am going to need you to text first because i feel like i’m being a bother if i speak again unprompted.