Ember of Obsession
by Stephanie Suh
I must love someone.
I need love.
Or I will lose myself,
Drifting and defeated,
Like a bird with torn wings.
It doesn’t matter
Whether it’s of the body or the mind.
Love is what keeps me alive,
Like blood keeps a vampire from rotting.
Call it impulse.
Call it lust.
I don’t care.
When the amber in me flickers,
Dim and cold in the icy hollow of my heart,
I know—it is time.
I strike a match.
I find someone to love.
And in that moment,
The spark leaps,
Threading fire into the bone of me.
The amber becomes fire.
Then flame.
Then fury.
And in that erotic blaze,
I live again.
It’s mad and bad.
Love is not like love--
Obsession burning in the white heat of imagination.
I love him or not--
It doesn’t matter.
I own him in me.
I allow him to live.
He is a slave to his lustful master.
But I am not filthy.
No choreography of lust
Moving in flows and ebbs.
Mine is magical:
First astral, then physical--
Summoned in the witchcraft of words.
Beauty comes in silence.
Burning in flame.
Whispers of feverish longing
To be touched--
But not touched.
It rises.
It settles.
It begins to ache
Every part of me
Till it bleeds on paper.
I feed on fear in secret
When the dusk becomes darkness.
Love kindles the dying spirit
And kills it with longing.
I live again.
Again.
Always.
I need love.
Or I will lose myself,
Drifting and defeated,
Like a bird with torn wings.
It doesn’t matter
Whether it’s of the body or the mind.
Love is what keeps me alive,
Like blood keeps a vampire from rotting.
Call it impulse.
Call it lust.
I don’t care.
When the amber in me flickers,
Dim and cold in the icy hollow of my heart,
I know—it is time.
I strike a match.
I find someone to love.
And in that moment,
The spark leaps,
Threading fire into the bone of me.
The amber becomes fire.
Then flame.
Then fury.
And in that erotic blaze,
I live again.
It’s mad and bad.
Love is not like love--
Obsession burning in the white heat of imagination.
I love him or not--
It doesn’t matter.
I own him in me.
I allow him to live.
He is a slave to his lustful master.
But I am not filthy.
No choreography of lust
Moving in flows and ebbs.
Mine is magical:
First astral, then physical--
Summoned in the witchcraft of words.
Beauty comes in silence.
Burning in flame.
Whispers of feverish longing
To be touched--
But not touched.
It rises.
It settles.
It begins to ache
Every part of me
Till it bleeds on paper.
I feed on fear in secret
When the dusk becomes darkness.
Love kindles the dying spirit
And kills it with longing.
I live again.
Again.
Always.
Stephanie Suh is a Korean-American writer exploring emotional survival, memory, and longing. She lives in California and is currently working on a collection of poetry and essays.