intimacy in verse

isn’t it funny that when we try to say ‘i am hungry’ in other languages, it, instead, directly translates to ‘i have hunger.’ (ex: spanish —> tengo hambre; or dutch —> ik heb honger) it makes more sense to me when we can turn that into a hunger for an emotion or feeling. or shit, even a person or people.

i have hunger for you.

language is funny. some of my friends declare proudly that they are “words of affirmation bitch[es]” but in my three decades of life, i’ve learned to see where and when actions and behaviour behind them bear weight.
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i’ve done a lot of stupid shit.

that includes falling in love with people through their words alone, nary a trace of their actual identity behind the computer screen. i don’t regret it, but only so much nuance can be discerned through the written word. there is no quiver in a voice that might hint at fear, no warm gaze burning through your soul, no blush creeping upon cheeks.

strange to recall when a younger, more innocent me held a sense of such sheer romanticism, but i know better now. the greatest thing out of those failures was an introduction to erotic intimacy, and in turn, the love and appreciation i have for the flesh vessel i occupy.


with each individual, i understand the gravity of sharing that type of love. each one helped me learn that first times are clumsy and awkward. the messiness of limbs tangled up in each other, sometimes trying to fit pieces where they traditionally don’t belong and discovering that— a-ha! maybe this is where it fits. we would Goldilocks our way through any technical or logistical issues, but tore ourselves apart over the emotional intimacy required to move forward.

often, i ended up walking a separate path and away from them.
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speaking so frankly about intimacy makes me wish it was fair to share my whole, messy history. this isn’t a diary. people haven’t consented. i’ve learned over time that it’s just better to leave it a mystery, it’s no one else’s business to know the details of demise.

half of the time, i don’t remember them.

elie wiesel once wrote that “the opposite of love isn’t hate, it’s indifference.” at this point in my life, i am too old and rich in abundant, loving relations for rallying and hating someone. they no longer register on my radar in their current form— because now, we are total strangers. consequently, the love i held for these people is still a truth— but it’s shifted shapes and settled into love for the relationship we shared.

part of my adult understanding of relationships stems from my spiritual practice. instead of deities, i worship the individual connections i make— at least the ones that i deem important. some of those include chthonic entities and beings, but also the astral and otherworldly reside here too, in my heart. i also think of Buddhist teachings: that our lives are constantly shifting, we are not static beings by any means. who i am today is not who i will be tomorrow.
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this sense of impermanence colours my life.
but so do the scars.

whenever i talk to my therapist about baggage, she mentions that “we do not leave childhood unscathed.” upon letting these words sink in, i note the way my breath rises and falls through each interaction with someone new— i feel my heart beat out of my chest and time stops as i try to discern if it’s trauma-addled brain, or if it’s the pheromones and adrenaline coursing through my veins.

developing intimacy with others at this stage of my life turns me into a walking contradiction: i crave authentic connection, the kind where you can get lost in conversation for hours without much pause. however, when it blossoms naturally, i find myself running away, fearful of the unrequited and unknown.

people often lament about being “too much” and how that’s a fear of many. what is the too-much-ness if not restrained in a container? how can that notion expand itself past boundaries?

i have been told i am too much,

yet also never enough.
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much of my work with intimacy revolves around building better, more sustainable and equitable relationships with those around me. my ethos surrounding my spiritual practice is to have a good death, we must live our lives well and in good relation with others and the world around us. while i don’t believe we can interact and develop intimacy with each person who crosses our paths, i am hopeful that the ones i choose to grow with are appreciative of the time and care i place into them.

remember when i said that language was funny? that when we say we are hungry in any other language (besides English,) it’s possessive and it has a hold over us, figuratively. i have hunger.

i understand caring for relationships in the same manner. hunger fuels the motivation behind such fiercely inquisitive relational development. a partner of mine thanked me for the fierceness and passion behind my interpersonal interactions and while it triggered me, it helped me understand that hunger is a basic human instinct. if i pine over someone, the emotional highs and lows are going to feel more fraught. my desperation for connection is more palpable and can be felt through the reverberations of my actions.

instead of seeing it as a bad thing, as a maladaptive response, it is a reframing of “you are starving for basic human connection.” i crave intimacy in all its forms. it is a human right and necessity. i will no longer bend to the whims of others and their criticisms if they do not understand what it is like to live with this deficiency, this primal need for connection. we deserve healthy, safe relationships of all kinds.

let me have hunger for you.

by Christa Lei