ALL THE WATER IN THE WHOLE WORLD ALL AT ONCE

I wanted to be loved by someone with the same ferocity I had loved my mother or my best friend in college. I wanted to be loved with violent enthusiasm– to be worshiped the way children play god on each other in a burnt suburban yard. 

I imagined we were all connected by water, having just learned about hyper objects in my urban ecology course. I imagined all the water in the whole world all at once, the water in the air, the clouds and the fog on your car windshield and every ocean and the contents of every plastic water bottle and every spit of saliva in everyones mouths everywhere and I wondered if the water in my body was the same water in someone’s villa swimming pool in rural italy or if that water was the same as the contents of a cactus in new mexico and then I remembered all the places with poisoned water and I wondered if that was the same water in my body was I going to die or was it different water and if it wasn’t the same water then were we all connected or not and the thrilling delusion of oneness with everything through water burst like a cheap rubber balloon stretched too far on the spigot in the backyard at the birthday party and I felt sort of sick, like someone’s uncle had thrown one of the water balloons at my face or belly like he wasn’t expecting me to cry when it exploded on my crinkled tank top that looked like something Lizzie Mguire would wear and now I understand what a hyper object is (kind of), and they asked me how much did I want to be loved with the same ferocity children search for security and I realized I didn’t want it anymore because harm doesn’t turn me on anymore– so please don’t love me frantically, resembling the desperation and sweetness we all allocated with austerity to those in authority when we had none and I’m clipping my toenails above the toilet now in silence in my blue bathroom and the soft sound of keratin falling into still water gives me peace and I asked myself what I would risk to be loved not with violent enthusiasm but sweetly the way water washes over me in the morning and I see now that the anticipation of shame kept me committed to privacy, pervasively poisoning any passion or purpose and I asked myself what I would risk and I would risk the absence of fear to let someone look at me lovingly. 

I would let someone look at me lovingly as I clip my toenails into the toilet, drinking water from a plastic cup with sailboats painted on the outside in the middle of the night because I feel better now and I would sacrifice anonymity to be perceived and to eat the sweet gaze of someone who is happy for me that I can be loved by them and hopefully I would love them too because that would be better– to be connected to them by the water dripping down my chin and into their open mouth at midnight.