with you

these days
i am falling
deep
into you
as far as my body will let me go
i would wish to wake up with you
your arms around me
kiss you
run my fingers through your hair
move closer
as close as possible in
the skin of my body
until
this becomes something
i no longer have words for

i just want to be with you

spaces

there's the cool air that hovers in my vision as you slow your hands, run them along my skin, my jeans, touching, just touching as you pull back and gently return, just touching me. and the anticipation crawling along my skin by the time you hit me is almost better than the pain itself.

everything is blurry here, as i shudder, collapse and cave inwards to myself in a mess of desire, of what you do to me, what i need from you. i would will this piece to be nothing but the truth, not even confession for i am years past places of shame, long before i met you. i do not know how to write this desire crawling along the dark spaces of my bones though, the hollows of my neck as you bite me, the curve of my ass as you spank me and the tug of my hair as you grab the strands and pull. for it is almost impossible to write the lines between fiction, fantasy and fact while the embellishments fester within these spaces. i would will myself to attempt it though. even if i do not fully understand it, even if i do not know where it started from.

there were the lines of my nails across my neck, face and arms in an attempt to cool the matter as i broke down, claw out the blood, blink and move forward, breath shaky through the moment. and the pain is sweet, barely crisp, possibly razor thin as it stings it's way along my skin and fade quickly. i repeated the process, each time the pain duller than before until i could no longer use it as a method to cope.

there were those nights in the dark, computer screen lit, paperback open, jean unbuttoned as i lower myself back into the curve of the bed in fascination. i am unable to recognize this though, even though everything has been building towards it. i allow myself to think of all the things i could do to him. and don't worry when the fantasies are fleeting and brief for i have not yet recovered from the idea that i could be a sexual being, something desired and to hold desire for other people. 

there are still those poems i wrote for him, though he has never read any of them and i have no intention of having him do so. the curve of the words are dark, black in the emptiness and the belief that i am broken, that maybe he can fix me, that i could be happy being anything he wanted me to be, a doll, his girl, a fuck toy. that it would be enough even if he didn't love me if he could just physically hurt me rather than allowing me to repeatedly break my heart in the shadows.

but still, i have never used the pain and the anticipation to harm myself, other than in self-depreciation and fantasy. and this i am proud of.

i can still remember the first time you kissed me. and i say kissed me rather than we kiss due to the fact that i did not know what to do. you're smiling, in a way that breaks my heart now, as you slowly close the gap between us. i do not remember if you had both your hands on my hips, or one in my hair or cupped against my cheek. only the sensation that i am falling and never want it to stop as you tell me to open my mouth a bit more and kiss me again. i grip your shoulders awkwardly and when you pull back i am both disappointed and relieved for i have no idea where to look now.

i think we've kissed five times now, though i'm not sure. but i text you and say that we should make out, setting the time for when i see you tomorrow. we spend the first part of the night dicking around at denny's until the moment comes and i am too scared to make a move, forcing you to. i ask if i can sit on your lap, overcome with the ever growing desire to try and climb into you, as if it could be possible to remove as much space between us. and when i ask you to bite me minutes later out of instinct it's all i can do but gasp and moan as you do, the bruises blooming on my neck at the end of the night  spectacular.

for this is subspace

the hollow ring of my breath in the air, the clawing of my body in an attempt to open myself wider for you, the whistle of air before you bring the belt down and the shudder that overcomes me as i allow it to take me over. deep enough that i can't explain the pull, the desire of it all for what you give me, even though that's all i wish to be able to do. i want you to hurt me, please me, break me. break me.

though this goes both ways as i give and i get. for i've never had any fear that i'd get hurt, either by myself or by you.

cannot

it is strange

and suddenly i cannot
only with the empty beat
of my heart along
the side of my rib
the hollow beneath the weight
of my stomach
built along the lines
that everything is now different
from yesterday

even when you kiss me
run your fingers through my hair
build the tension
along the base of my spine
and out across my abdomen
till you cleave my body in two
at the end of this moment

i am still whole though
still beating
breathing moving along
between the burst of my cells
and the boil of the blood
despite the possibilities
and the consequences

because you never realize
what it means to you
until you suddenly can't

perfect

and this is ecstatic

the beat of your body

within mine

the rush of the blood

along the length of

my limbs

as i rock forward into

your arms

laughing

i cannot stop smiling

for everything feels

perfect now

happy

part three

you tell me

you love me

and i wish to stop breathing

curl my body forward into yours

clutch my fingers

against your shoulders

breath your scent in

and almost will myself to cry

as i am overcome

i hope you know how

happy you make me

in the end

part two

i told you
i love you (i love you)
quickly without breath
in my memories
of the embellishment
of the act
and the tug of the words
from my lips
in one go
almost to the point where
i wondered if
i'd just thrown
my confession away
i told you
i love you (i love you)
"really?" you asked
really, truly
actually,
probably by now
for long enough that
i am no longer fighting it
and this will only
grow from here
i told you
i love you (i love you)
and you asked for time
but i knew that
before i decided to speak
i knew that as i
opened my mouth
i knew that as
i watched your face
in response and
it's ok
i'll give it to you
willingly

for i see no reason why
we won't get there
in the end

make do

part one

i was going to write
you a confession
to tell you
i love you (i love you)
probably filled with words about
the way you make me feel
written like all other poems
and all other loves
shared by
other people
so generic that in the end
i couldn't
i was going to write
you a love poem
in confession
about it all
and i can't
not sure why
or how or when
but this relationship is now
everything
not in a creepy or
desperate manner
but in a fashion that it's
slightly too large
to kiss open across the page
in a way that makes
any sense at all
i was going to write
you a confession
to tell you
i love you (i love you)
but instead
wrote one
on why i couldn't

you'll just have to
make do with this

love poem

i'd love to write you
love poems
in some essence of the moment
a sliver of remembrance across the page
in hopes that maybe you will
understand
possibly allow both of us to cry
by the time we reach
the last line

(i wrote you
a love poem)(i wrote
you a love poem)(i
wrote you a
love poem)

i want to write you
love poems
in an effort to tell you
the things i have stopped questioning
what i am compelled to do
kiss you softly
link your fingers through mine
and roll over beneath the darkness
in my bed together

(i wrote you
a love poem)(i wrote
you a love poem)(i
wrote you a
love poem)

i'm going to write you
love poems
so i can give you everything
the beat of the moment
all of this laughter
the press of your hand to my heart
those smiles in the corner of the day
when i am happy
or everything is just full
on the level of complete
satisfaction

(i wrote you
a love poem)(i wrote
you a love poem)(i
wrote you a
love poem)
(i wrote you
a love poem)(i wrote
you a love poem)(i
wrote you a
love poem)

so smile
kiss me
but more importantly
i just need you
to be
here

coming

i will go psychotic by the end of the week.

i can already feel the crunch, the twist in my bones as i move my body in motion to try and offset the inevitable. for this is worse because i know that it's coming.

and i used to laugh, maybe not quite like that, but didn't really, truly understand when people complained. the response was a basic 'so? why are you complaining?' i didn't really understand since i had no point of reference. cause if i'm not sexually active, you can't really expect me to sympathize with someone who is and not getting any. at most it's a half sympathetic pat on the back. and now i'm in their position.

i need you to fuck me, for the next time i see you it will have been a week. but even more basic than that, i just need you to touch me. trace the back of my neck, run your fingers through my hair, while you kiss me, as i blow you, during a pause when you stop moving to grind yourself into me. cup my breasts, bite the undersides of them and pinch my nipples. trace the lines of my ribs, my stomach, tighten your fingers around my hips as you fuck me. finger me, lick me, hold me still as you have your way with me. bite me. everywhere you can reach and when i wake up the next morning i want to see marks on my neck, so deep i'll be unable to hide them. for just the sight of them will keep me going for days.

i need you. whether to love me, kiss me, break me, fuck me, hold me, touch me, fucking send me over the edge in your arms. for i want there to be no way for me to forget the feeling as you touch me.

need

kiss me. harder than before, to reach the point where i am trying to climb into you. grab my hair at the back of my neck and pull my head back. bite me again and again, hard enough, deep enough so there is no possible way for me to hide the bruises on my neck in the morning. wrap your arms around me, dig your fingers into my hips or my ass as i straddle your lap and force me to you so i can feel your erection against my jeans, because i really love it when you can't help it. tell me what you want to do to me, or better yet, whisper orders in my ear. i'll probably follow them. strip me. lay me on my stomach, press my face into the bed, pinch my nipples and restrain me with your body. fuck me. hard. deep. then hard. tie my wrists down, finger me and don't listen when i say no, for i might come like that. please. fuck me. hard.
and when it's over, i'll need you to do it again.

how to love you

the real question is
whether or not i will make you immortal
as i press my lips to the curve
of your cheek on the page,
feel your fingers gently grasp
around my wrist in a light grip
and sigh.
because this is such a slow moment
in time, stretched out along
the length of my bed
in the soft darkness of the night,
my body wrapped tightly in yours
as the two of us drift off
into sleep.
i do not know any other way
to love people,
but to write the lines
of your body clear across the page,
slowly claw the desire
of what you do to me
along the edge of my skin
as i shudder,
shiver and then collapse forward
into the memory of your arms.
and in doing so, i used to wonder
what you
and other people think of this,
because i will not regret it
in the end,
for this moment existed once
in this type of love,
carved out against the thudding
beat of my heart
as i slowly try to climb
into you, elicit
a smile and a laugh, trace
my fingers through your beard
and eventually fall asleep with
my head on your shoulder
and your arm around my waist.
for we'll exist,
immortal,
as love letters on this page together
long, long after these moments
are over.

the first two lines of the poem are taken from They eat out by Margaret Atwood.

october 27, 2013

this is for you

i want to write this, even without a clear purpose or desire, just to let the words fall aimlessly across the page. i do not want to live in fear, of whether this will scare you, if i am sharing too much, moving too far forward. i think it's a bit too late for that though and in the end i am an impatient person. there is no point in me pretending or hiding anything.

i think i wanted this to be a type of love poem, a story of kinds as i scratch myself bare across the screen, an erotic fantasy of sorts, something to kiss it better in the cool of my empty bed at night. a deliberate attempt to set you off, because i often seen to do that by accident. so this time i could try and that maybe somewhere along the lines, i could be good with words. i often am but in all forms unnecessary, for i still don't know how to phrase this, or even know what i originally thought was the purpose.

i am still trying not to name this. but i am happy, and in the end i am happy naturally most days. so thank you. for all of this and everything.

crying

and in the end

i don't know why

but all i feel like

is crying

just enough to grope open

the length of my pelvis

grip my fingers deep 

into the give of my blankets

while i bury my head into my pillow

as to not allow myself

the temptation of screaming

in attempt to remedy

the situation

before i shatter apart

in the emptiness of tonight

i do not know what is wrong

how to tell you this or

even just to ask for you to hold me

tightly on your arms

until the confusion ends

or i finally start crying

whichever comes first

patience

i'll apologize,
even after i've let you go,
sleep deprived and four orgasms later,
for the state of things
i created,
even though i know you enjoyed it too.
still, this is not all
about me
and i have to remind myself that
as i fight back the urge
to kiss you harder, wrap my arms
around you, pull your body closer
so i can feel your erection
against my body and the pulse
of the memory
of what it's like to have you deep inside me.
for somewhere along the lines,
between the bedsheets and my legs,
i should learn patience
or something.

breathing

one.
two.
three.
four. i am still breathing.
tonight and every night,
your fingers in my hair as you fuck me. hard.
almost to the point where i wish
for no mercy. one.
two. three.
four. five. six.
it's at the point where i no longer question it,
though i am often surprised
by the popular opinion,
for the internet is a bad place to be
when i have questions.
i have been told i should be choking, i should not
enjoy this, there should be no enactment
of agency to be found
within this moment.
one. two. three. four.
five. six.
seven. eight. nine.
ten. and each time i do this
i do not want
to apologize, not for the gasp
that escapes my lips as you bite me,
the grip of your fingers around my wrists,
the whole of your weight against me
as you pin me to the bed, or even
the frantic motion in which i move to kiss you.

for there is no point in questioning
the logic of how my lungs and body
breathe together in this natural state
of being.

with me

breathe
softly quietly
beneath the shadow and the shiver
of this sensation
as my eyes close and slowly roll
back into my head
my neck tilting to the side
as i gasp
the memory of the moment
a fresh chill along my skin
that i am incapable
of overcoming
i can still feel you with me
on me
in me
around me
long after you're gone

fuck

and this is different.
or not.
fuck.
you should push me,
grab me, bite me,
break me, pry me
open along the bed,
kiss me, stroke me,
hold me
together,
still. i keep expecting
something, as if the world
should have shattered,
i should have cried,
whether from complication,
fear or embarrassment, i am not sure.
yet this is normal, almost,
for i am still faintly left
with the rocking sensation
of your inhabitance of my body,
the beat of my heart in knowledge
of the act, the churn of my mind
in remembrance.
fuck.
you should push me,
grab me, bite me,
break me, pry me
open along the bed,
kiss me, stroke me,
hold me
together,
still.
for i do not feel to have lost
myself yet.

believe

and this time i believe you
as i inhale deeply, the scent of arousal
still clinging to my fingers, my body
awash with the small thrill of the moment,
your lips on my neck, your fingers
in my hair as we each breath raggedly together.
it's in the omission that it breaks me open,
the whisper in your voice as i run my tongue
along the side of your neck,
press my breasts down against your chest
and feel your hands solid
along the base of my spine
while i resist the urge to hold back
from allowing you to fuck me.
and you, along with the rest of my world,
will probably read this,
maybe as confession, a love poem,
a lie, the truth behind the curve of the computer screen,
but even at this point i find i have very little
to be afraid of by now,
not the lines of my body, the arc of my heart
and the span of my desire in relation
to my body and my mind and you.
for we've already reached the tipping point of resolution.
and i have been left with nothing to fear
by tomorrow.