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gruss vom Krampus

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when i wake up

in my makeup

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letchworth state park ⋇ 23 oct

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Christophe Jacrot

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Hilary Mantel, from Wolf Hall (Thomas Cromwell, #1)

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to be loved is to be seen

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Daria and Jane MTV Top Ten Countdown

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Vita Sackville-West, from a letter to Virginia Woolf, featured in The Letters of Vita Sackville West & Virginia Woolf

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twenty years across the sea

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am i making you feel sick?

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Madison Julius Cawein, “Dusk In The Woods”

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Edna St. Vincent Millay, from a letter featured in The Letters of Edna St. Vincent Millay

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entry no. 1

there’s something inherently grotesque about love. it’s not the soft, pastel-colored thing hallmark would have you believe. love is sharp teeth and bloodied hands. it’s hunger—actual, visceral hunger.

we “devour” each other with our eyes. we “consume” each other’s attention. we talk about “aching” for someone, about feeling “empty” without them. love songs croon about addiction and obsession, about needing someone like a junkie needs a fix. calvin harris and the disciples literally sang, “i want you to breathe me in, let me be your air.” love demands consumption, down to the bare bone.

the cultural shorthand is clear: desire is hunger. and hunger—real hunger—has always had a dark edge. maybe that’s why the cannibal keeps showing up in our stories about love. hannibal lecter and clarice starling’s hypnotic dance of intellect and temptation. armie hammer’s scandal that felt like the logical end point of his sexy, “aristocratic” image. netflix’s fresh, where sebastian stan plays a charming man who dates women only to harvest their flesh. and let’s not forget our beloved twilight—edward cullen, sparkling like a disco ball, warning bella, “you’re like my own personal brand of heroin.”

what is love if not the urge to consume? the desire to take someone so deeply into yourself that they become a part of you—biologically, spiritually, metaphorically. and what is heartbreak if not hunger pangs when that person is gone?

cannibalism makes an excellent metaphor because it’s all about boundaries—or the lack thereof. loving someone means letting them in, letting them get so close that the lines between you start to blur. but what happens when that intimacy turns dangerous? when the hunger isn’t mutual? when one person is the predator and the other is the prey?

jeffrey dahmer didn’t kill people because he hated them. he killed them because he couldn’t bear to be alone. he wanted to keep them close, permanently. it’s completely horrifying, yes, but also tragically relatable. anyone who’s stayed up all night rereading texts from an ex, anyone who’s memorized someone’s spotify playlists just to feel connected—congratulations, you’re already halfway to dahmer’s basement.

romeo and juliet, the classic tale of doomed romance, hinges on mutual destruction. they consume each other until there’s nothing left, literal poison sealing the deal. it’s the same story in wuthering heights. heathcliff doesn’t just love cathy; he wants to haunt her. when she dies, he famously cries out, “be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss where i cannot find you!” romantic? sure. but it’s also deeply unhinged.

maybe that’s why vampires, zombies, and other flesh-eaters keep showing up as metaphors for desire. they’re embodiments of hunger without limits, love without boundaries. they remind us that intimacy is inherently risky. to love someone is to hand them a knife and hope they don’t use it.

but the truth is, we want them to use it—just a little. we want the vulnerability, the ache, the bite. we want to be consumed. after all, what’s the alternative? to be alone? to keep your heart under glass, untouched and pristine? no one writes sonnets about that. no one makes movies about lovers who stay politely detached.

maybe cannibalism is the perfect metaphor for love. it’s a bit unsettling, sure, but so is the way we talk about relationships. soulmates. twin flames. two halves of a whole. it’s all just a pretty way of saying: i want you inside me. not just physically, but spiritually. i want to know you so deeply that the distinction between me and you dissolves.

and isn’t that a little terrifying? isn’t that what keeps us awake at night? the knowledge that love will either complete us—or consume us whole.

so eat your heart out. or let someone else do it. either way, bon appétit.

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the summer ends.

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