Tell me your secrets and I will show you mine. The ones that replace words with writhes and moans that cross all kinds of lines. I will, if you wish, give a taste to define — All the naughty things that cross my mind. No feather-like kisses and delicate tongue, No sheets to slither on or tempered wants. I like pain with my pleasure — to give and to get. I want to be ripped apart and my pulsing appetite kept whet. Blindside me with brazen hands, nails and teeth, Let me be the filler of your darkest needs. They say the darker the desire, the deeper the cuts, But I’ll devour it all and bear the marks with pride. Simply satiate the source of the constant pulse between my thighs.
Tear me apart because I want you to.
Let me be your slave because I want you to.
Rip open my chest and devour its contents because I want you to.
I will – in turn – do the same.
You crowd my space, fill my mind and take over my comfort zone,
Because I want you to.
And I love it.
I want you to.
I want to feel you taking me in and spitting me out – shrouding me with the sexual ecstasies of life.
Because I’m willing, I’m ready, I’m open and I want you to.
I want all of you.
I want you to have all of me.
All my crazy, my empathy, kindness and lies.
These things are for you.
Lies are not always bad.
Lies make birds chirp a little sweeter.
Will you appreciate this love?
It would never sit with betrayal.
Just a simple appreciation of the good stuff.
I can only give you raw.
Pure and unfathomed and well… crazy.
We all like a little crazy.
I know I do.
That’s the beauty of this.
Allowing another person’s chaos to perforate your life…
That’s what they give you.
That’s what you get.
So why not simply enjoy it?
I want to be filled by love.
I want to devour it, and I want it to do the same to me.
The tears, the fears, cravings and pain.
That’s what defines love at the end of the day, isn’t it?
That’s the beauty of love, isn’t it?!
Can you find me in the dark —
Fitted among the many souls that are strewn across your path?
Will you recognise my voice?
The echo of which bleeds with the agony of time long past.
They say we are bound but I wonder at times if it’s just a fated lie,
One that was created to make us feel like maybe there’s more to this.
Am I waiting on a dream that will never come?
Maybe this is the dream.
Who says dreams have to be some grand thing —
Something that will touch a part of you that’s hidden and precious?
This could be it.
This could be all there is.
And all we have to do is create what we want like in our fantastical dreams at night —
When we put together fantasies and nightmares borne of our subconscious selves.
Still, what’s life without a little hope, a little mystique?
As a creator of this reality, maybe I will bring you to life,
Then turn it into something fatebound and magical,
Because, why not make things a bit more interesting?
Either way, fate or dreamscape, I’m here.
I will be here…
Surrounded by shadows.
Patiently waiting for you to recognise my light.
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.
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.