the politics of desire : iv

fall, 2013
i think it happened sometime during summer, even without me paying any attention to it. almost as if there should have been another year of growth slid in between the past two, for the direction i appear to have been on has gone quicker than expected.
i think i though originally that i would be unable to explain this fully, that it would take time and effort to alleviate my intended confusion. i am still breathing though and the girl in the mirror looks good today and everyday as i brush my hair out of my eyes, zip up my coat and head out into tonight.
and still each time i kiss you, let you rock me back into the bed, thread your fingers through mine i am not lost, not falling apart well beyond the hours of midnight. there is no fear and all i can really feel is the scent of autumn on my skin, the lingering sensation of you around me as i wear your sweaters in your absence and the tick, tock as today counts down into the arrival of tomorrow.
for i don't think i've been scared for a long time now.

the politics of desire : iii

fall, 2012

the face in the mirror is smiling in a manner i am still unsure how to interpret. The beat of my heart is still electric, a steady pulse down the length of my body as i swallow my breath. i am as close to being happy as i ever have been, the quiver in my body faint when i'm alone, the implications of this feeling and the promise that i am close enough to finally act on it. for this has been almost long enough, as i wait in bated silence, the fear of an oncoming expectation in the future and what will happen.

i am at the point now where i can elect to ignore the sensation of fear as it trembles down the length of my arms, smile occasionally to my reflection in the mirror, appreciate the lines of my body in an abstract manner, almost non-sexual even as i entertain brief fantasies of what it would be like to kiss him.

this is almost enough though, for i have  reached the point where i can imagine something further,  even as my notebooks is filled with poems i am still partly afraid of, my closet slowly starting to overflow and the inhabitance of my body holding a new sensation that i have barely managed to grasp. yet even as i rush past the mirror on my way out the door to see him, i have started to pay better attention. 

the girl in the mirror is now recognizable in a way she's never been before.

the politics of desire : ii

fall, 2011

i am barely aware of the way he looks at me, for i'm still smiling awkwardly as i try to ignore it all. i'm afraid, of the idea of being touched, pried open even with my consent. i am aware of the scent of fear along my body as i gage my reflection in the mirror, swallow my pride as i pull my clothes over my lines and angles, hiding various parts of my skin behind so many layers of fabric. as i get dressed in the morning i am confronted with the fact that i have no idea who i am dressing for, even as i hear the voice in the back of my head whisper the question of whether he'll like it. and eventually the shirt is tighter, neckline lower as i attempt to capitalize what miniscule power i can obtain from using a body i have not yet learned to love. or have even come close to accepting.

i want him to look at me, i want him to want me, even as i feel trapped beneath his eyes. i am scared at the implications of my desire, or even the idea that i could be desired. so i follow all the rules while trying to pretend they don't exist when he tries to reciprocate. and eventually the tables turn so when i feel ready enough to make a move he now no longer feels the same way.

the politics of desire : i

fall, 2010

the air is always electric after end of the show, the cold air of late november slowly settling on my skin as i rock back on the stone table while waiting for my ride home. this feeling is new, an ache along the length of my spine, as if it would be possible to have my body pried open gently on my way to orgasm. i roll my shoulders forward in an attempt to reach satisfaction, elbows resting on my knees, hair barely past my ears falling into my eyes as i unconsciously slowly grind back and forth. i am still unaware of the implications of my body, the relation of myself i carry in opposition of my desire for men, the promise of being fucked slowly growing along the length of my bones from the chill of the night descending.

but there will be nothing more tonight. only this rote attempt to reach satisfaction and end this sensation crawling along the inside of my bones. yet i know, even as my ride pulls up, that it will be a long time coming before i accomplish this.

dressing up

i bet those jeans make your ass look great, she says.

i want you to look at me, the curve of my hips, my breasts, my ass, the slope of my shoulders, the angle of my hand on my hip as i pause, stop and turn to look back at you.
this is a signal i want you to fuck me, let me slowly lower myself down into your lap as you remove my sweater from my shoulders, slide your hands under my shirt and bra, if i happen to be wearing one, and kiss me.
at the same time this is not about you as i allow myself to move within the dark spaces of the night, warm with the petals of imagination and fantasy. you could be anyone, the man across the bar, the boy driving a pickup truck too large for him, a faceless man i have no desire for and cannot conceive developing any. what matters is that there is the possibility that you're watching me. that you cannot help it.
so i'll start moving.
because this is different than before, fresher than the first time i wanted your gaze on me, your lips on mine and was drowning in the fear of it. so i did the only thing i could think to express it. i made the shirt tighter, the neckline lower, the jeans curvier and wore no bra, just a shelf tank underneath in a means to offset the standard of beauty i was attempting to become. i wanted you to think i was beautiful, and if that didn't work i wanted you to think i was hot enough for you to mess around with. fuckable. even though i couldn't bring myself to say those words.
and when i showed up at college i couldn't find you. a quick search revealed that you were skipping class and the irony was so much i almost started laughing. that was the first and last time i dressed solely for you.
now when you look, it's not because i've done it for you. i've done it for me. and because i'm so fucking hot you just can't help but look.

giving up

there are the moments when i see you that i begin to hate myself again. usually when you smile at me, the pauses between the conversation when i stop awkwardly, unsure of how to continue. and you never seem to notice.
i should be over you. you have made it clear, in the one small conversation that we've had, that you do not want me, not like that. so i took the axe and the hammer, smashed whatever feelings i had felt for you, gutted the rest with a knife and when it was over i was left with the sensation of being hollow every time i am near you.
i cannot handle being near you.
not without feeling like i am 17 again, with the scent of fear and uncertainty imprinted along my skin, the face in the mirror expressionless and alien, my need for some one to touch me a shameful secret. you were the first time i was not afraid.
and i refuse to go back to that. and now that i have killed everything i felt about you in the past two years, i find myself wondering if there is anything left to salvage.
i don't believe there is, but i can't bring myself to tell you this. so we keep going in circles, me pretending that we are the same and you, ever oblivious to it all.

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.

punch it

i paid a short adorable woman 90 dollars to punch a bar through two separate points in my left ear.
this time i did not have rage to carry me through the healing process, as i replace the anger with another kind of pain, sweeter, easier to control as i attempt to simultaneously claw my body open and fuse it back together.
for i like the moments in which i hurt myself, claw my body open from the ribs, bury my face in my hands and gasp against the pain. and in the end, after all this, i have physically proof that i have survived, taken ownership over this pain, my body, my desire and the loneliness of this world.
i am left with metal in my ears.

cologne

i can still feel his arm around my shoulder, his hand in mine, the feeling of my body next to his on the couch and i am fucking empty without it. yesterday's sweater was the first thing i put back on, then the red skirt without any shorts underneath, for his scent is still clinging to my body.
and when i inhale i'll remember him, his scent and the sensation that i should be climbing into him, my hands in his hair, my mouth on his neck. the restraint of being in the car with him, the casual movements he makes with his hands as he talks, his cologne faint in the space between us as i lick my lips, my mouth dry and wanting.
it takes all i have not to jump him.