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.

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.