Let’s connect. Let me feel and taste you while we figure this thing out. Let me know the insides of your mind while I fantasize about the possibilities of us. Let me go out on a limb and just take advantage of your sexual drive. What’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with wanting something for this moment – this singular time and just enjoying it? Why make it complicated? Why not take chances and go by the thrills and the pulls of our inner selves? Isn’t that the beauty of this? Isn’t all that we want just a few open touches away from this? I want you to open me up. Tear me apart and invade my comfort space. I want to feel you rippling through my mind as my days take pace. I want you to teach me to use my mind like a tongue. This tool that will lick every inch of you and enjoy the sensations that it pulls. I’ll teach you more. I’ll teach you how to revere my body like a shrine. I’ll teach you to respect every crevice that’s mine. Oh, you’ll like it. You’ll love every minute of it. And you’ll crave… We’ll both crave. And that’s the beauty of it. This urge, this thing that drives us to be our unfathomed selves, Damn… If only. If only we could connect. If only we could feel and taste each other while we figure things out. If only we could let each other get to know the insides of our minds and enjoy fantasizing about the possibilities of us. If only we could go out on a limb and just enjoy our sexual drives… What’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with that?!
I have a curious relationship with my ego. We are not friends, but where ever I go she goes. At times we fight like sisters – with attacks so low the sting burns. Sometimes I sit and watch her play. Other times she destroys something and I take the blame. After all, what can I do? My ego is always there – a part of me yet completely separate. If unleashed destruction is in her wake, Am I not the one who should have taken a break? My ego and I have a strenuous relationship. We fight with each other, we laugh, we love together, And sometimes we simply exist. Take heed though and don’t trust your ego, I never do mine. The secret is to merely listen, observe, and untwine.
When it’s quiet, really quiet, I feel the echoes of my existence bleeding through my skin. I try to stay still – no breathing, no thinking – just floating. Maybe that will keep it at bay. It usually does for a little while. Not often though. The heavy feeling of my breath, my heartbeat- The fact that I am here in this moment (this space) is something that has always haunted me. Does it haunt you too? Do you want to pause your existence and not feel, not touch, not smell, not want…? These moments are my torture – my masochistic thrill, For, if I do not feel the weight of my existence, how do I know that i’m alive?
How do I cry for a loss that feels superficial but deep? How do I want or define something I’m not sure I want to keep? I love you. I do. You know this. But love, to me, is bullshit. Oh it’s great in the moments of early thrills. It speaks volumes when things are covered in silk. But – Its death is simply inevitable…
The visceral groans that purr against my skin, my throat, my groin…
What is this feeling that envelopes my blood?
This feeling that causes me to yearn beyond thoughts and just languor on the edge
And stretch with need as I try to clench my womanhood into submission.
Why do I submit?
Why should I?
The answer is slow, though not always welcomed.
Is this what true love feels like?
Is this what it means to commit and actually stay committed?
It’s a hard thrill, a crazy thrill, a painful thrill… but still a thrill.
Was anyone ever worth this before?
Did my tongue not go dry at a missing before?
Did I not yearn and love so hard that this urge cascaded before?
I can’t tell you now,
But this feels new.
Here I am sitting on the edge of sanity.
Clenching my thighs and thinking it’s almost a year before your entry.
If this isn’t love I don’t know how to define the taste.
My thoughts and feelings make it so hard to assuage.
In my dreams, you love me with your tongue in and out like a stream.
You rip open my body and make the universe scream.
God! You love me so hard that each pore steams.
And, still, my insanity beams.
How do I calm the beast inside?
I feel trapped because it’s so hard to take apart these times.
I just go by the moments that temper my skin,
And hope against hope that, eventually, you’ll accept my sins.
Oh how you wooed me. How you brought me to the edge and then back. How you promised me feelings of euphoria when I would just be sitting here – basking, waiting – yearning for the other. What do you have that I don’t have? These lies that you proffer and the pain that follows it’s just… it’s so much, and so little… If only these moments could last – the thrills, the good stuff, all the brilliant things but, they never do. Only pain follows. But still, I yearn. I want. I crave more. More of you? No. More of what you give me. More of what I get. You are my absent thrill… Always. And I thank you. I thank you for that. They say you’re my enemy, but you’re my friend – you’re one of my best friends! You’re always there for me, even though I know you’re killing me as I take you in… But, that’s not important. We all die soon anyway. Thank you for being there for me. My poison. My thrill.
She feels you.
You know she does.
You know she will always help your thoughts and inner shit.
And so you bask.
You bask in the fact that you without her is you without you.
You know that you without her is you without your confidant.
You without her means bye bye assurance.
And you without her is you without your moments of clandestine thrills.
So you stay.
You stay and you seek and you take.
Why not get as much from this and try to make it your own?
How often will you find another that will give you a throne?
And here she sits.
Expecting, because she sees what you do not know, and she knows.
Maybe too much…
What does she do?
Should she listen to the sounds that play in her ear?
Or go by the seconds that prove her despair?
Does she continue to listen to the quiet songs that play?
Or does she put away her heart and just go by the day?
Dynamics of ish will always play true.
It really doesn’t matter, these things we do.
I feel, you take, when will it end?
Someone’s always left with something unsaid…
Below the smiles lie the true hearts that beat, The sadness and unreputed pain that never bleeds. This “cool land” that takes centre stage, Is just another faceted belief that makes it easy to sleep. The honor, the respect – what are these things? Do they shelter a deep mourning of expressions never seeped? They smile and apologise to cover the pain, But does their true worth ever form fates?
They live in a bubble of pacifist needs, But do the moments of retribution ever leave? Living on the outside looking in – countering the moments that never exist. The work is exhausting, though one would not think why, And the strong shoulders remain, but never for cries. One yearns and controls the seconds that come, And sits quietly while the food stays in control. This measure of thinking that this world is the best, Is just a measure that tolls the black bird’s nest. Never sigh or show the minutes that dwell, Or you’ll be placed in the most unforgivable hell.
Letting emotions go free is not what is good, Let’s keep it hidden – locked, under the hood. If we keep the moments of pain under clasp, We’ll be following the rules of the open past. Times like this, I wish that when I see the truths I’d remain unbent. But those aren’t the rules of such a surreal life, There’s a price for comfort and polite smiles. How much would you pay to live in a world That’s covered in trust but soothed in dirt?
“I will respect you ‘til my end”, that’s what they say, yes? Just stay within the box and it’ll all be set. It’s safe in this bubble while the world strolls by, Because these moments are just lent from the human mind…
What is beauty, this mystery that shrouds my skin?
This thing that casts an odd glow on my rather-not-mentioned sins.
Here I stand with wrinkles and lines, still the same person only slower,
Still the same person only duller.
Do my lines define me?
I think they do…
They define not what I think of myself but what is viewed of me.
I’ve grown to loathe all the grey bits that sporadically appear on my head,
Not until I’m fifty! Or closer to agéd death.
How does one keep their cool while trudging this line called life?
How does one stop the clock that slowly penetrates the nights?
My greys and aged skin do not bask humbly by the window –
Willingly waiting for moments of thrilling youthful endeavours.
I, nay, we all sit by this folly,
Braving the days… or maybe not so much bravery when it comes to the uncertain.
Still, life gives little choice to those who breathe this air,
And eventually, unless we die young, we all face the call of the aging glare.