Right hand, left hand on the handle bars. Stand to attention. Listen. Your father is yelling again, the sound drifting through the screen door. Your brother is playing video games in his room. You cannot hear your mother crying. Wait for the wind on your skin before you step through the frame of the bike.
Balance, hands on the handle bars, bike between your legs. Strong. Capable of things your father says you are not. Stand up on your toes and raise yourself onto the seat. Admire your control over the bike. You are only getting started.
Place your right foot on the pedal. Lean left with your other foot on the ground. Hands straight. Scooch your butt around, maybe back a little until you're comfy. Do not worry about a helmet. It will not be needed where you are going. Straighten up. Look forward at the road. Ignore the house behind you.
Push forward with your right leg on the pedal. Raise your left leg and place it on the other pedal. Push your left leg forward. Move.
Keep pedalling around and around, into the wind, sun bright and sticky on your skin. Down the road. Forward into possibility. Away from that house and all the screaming.
Showing posts with label prose. Show all posts
Showing posts with label prose. Show all posts
Thursday, 24 April 2014
Sunday, 20 April 2014
Smile for the Camera
The light is soft. Green leaves on the bushes, small wild roses blooming. They stand side by side in the garden. Their family waits in a ring, cameras clutched in their hands.
She has her arm awkwardly around her sister's waist. Her sister's dress is blue, strapless, and draping to the ground as it brushes against the grass. She is wearing tights and her short black dress. “Get closer.” Their grandmother calls. She waves her hand in emphasis as she looks through the small viewfinder of her ancient camera. They uncomfortably move closer together. That’s good,” says their mother. ‘Now smile like you love each other.”
They smile. Awkwardly. For graduation photos. For their parents and grandparents. They smile.
Like they have done this pose a million times.
She has her arm awkwardly around her sister's waist. Her sister's dress is blue, strapless, and draping to the ground as it brushes against the grass. She is wearing tights and her short black dress. “Get closer.” Their grandmother calls. She waves her hand in emphasis as she looks through the small viewfinder of her ancient camera. They uncomfortably move closer together. That’s good,” says their mother. ‘Now smile like you love each other.”
They smile. Awkwardly. For graduation photos. For their parents and grandparents. They smile.
Like they have done this pose a million times.
Wednesday, 16 April 2014
Apologies
She found him sitting on the couch, fingers clasped loosely around a beer can with his forearms resting on his knees, back hunched forward as his shirt shifted to reveal the nape of his neck. The lamps were off and the late light of the afternoon softly filled the room, emphasizing the lines of his face and obscuring the days’ growth on his jaw. His shadow stretched out across the coffee table before him, crawling its way forward as if to escape him. It was quiet in the apartment except for the sounds of his breathing, the tick of the clock, and the music echoing faintly from her daughter’s room down the hall. She unbuttoned her coat, slid the closet door open with a creak and rustled around for a coat hanger. Finding none free, she hung her coat overtop of his and shut the door. She removed an envelope from her purse and placed the bag on the entrance table.
He made no sign that he’d noticed her presence.
“Rough day?” she quipped as she bent down to remove her shoes.
“I want you to stop.” Her hand slowed midair, fingers resting on the heel of her stiletto as the shoe dangled half off her foot. She slowly slid the shoe back on and stood there waiting, one hand on her hip and the envelope in the other, saying nothing.
“I want you to stop. This.” he repeated, his head still bowed. “I can’t take it anymore.”
The silence stretched across the room, as neither of them moved. There was only the soft buzz of insects from outside the window and the ting of aluminum as he lowered the can onto the coffee table.
She looked around the room, at the worn upholstery of the sofa, the baskets of unfolded laundry next to the coffee table, the TV remote with the dead batteries lying next to it. The dishes were unwashed in the sink, yesterday’s pasta still in the pot on the stove and the piles of unpaid bills growing on the kitchen table. A growing trail of broken toys abandoned in the dust on the floor wound its way down the hall to her daughter’s bedroom.
The sound of bare feet on the cold tile floor echoed its way down the hall and her daughter poked her head around the wall. “Mommy, you’re home!” her daughter exclaimed as she ran towards her and latched her small, skinny arms around her legs, almost ripping her nylons in the process. She slowly ran her fingers through the girl’s hair, untangling the knots and gently shushing her as the girl kept talking. She lifted her daughter up onto her hip, even though the child was getting to be much too big to do it anymore.
He made no sign that he noticed the girl, except for the slight tightening of his fingers on the can. She turned to face her daughter and took stock of her hair, the dirt on her face and the rip in her pajama bottoms at the knee.
“Did you have a good day at school?” she asked.
“I didn’t go.”
“Why not?”
“Daddy wasn’t awake to take me.”
“Really.”
“Yes,” the girl nodded, “I made myself toast for breakfast. Just like you showed me.” She brushed the girl’s hair out of her eyes and licked her fingers to wipe the smudge off her face, despite the girl’s protests.
“Did you put the toaster away after you were done?” The girl nodded. “Good job. Now why don’t you go start the bath for me? Do you remember how to turn on the tap?” And when the girl nodded, she gently lowered her off of her hip and watched her race away down the hall to the bathroom, kicking her dolls into the wall in the process as she ran by.
She turned back to face him. “Did you find a job yet?” she asked. And when he said nothing, she reached down to remove her shoes once more.
He raised his head as she approached him, squatting down so she could see his eyes. They were bloodshot and heavy with alcohol and a lack of sleep. His clothes were the same ones he’d worn yesterday and the day before. His hair was uncombed and the angles of his face sharp. She swallowed and turned her eyes away from him.
She ran her fingers over the edge of the envelope in her hands. “I’ll put this on the table,” she said. “There should be enough for rent and to buy groceries tomorrow.” She stood up and walked past the sofa. She placed the envelope down next to the pile of the bills and turned to leave the room.
“I’m sorry,” he said. She paused at the doorway and looked back. She smiled weakly but said nothing.
He was still sitting there long after she’d gone to bathe, her daughter’s voice echoing down the hall.
He made no sign that he’d noticed her presence.
“Rough day?” she quipped as she bent down to remove her shoes.
“I want you to stop.” Her hand slowed midair, fingers resting on the heel of her stiletto as the shoe dangled half off her foot. She slowly slid the shoe back on and stood there waiting, one hand on her hip and the envelope in the other, saying nothing.
“I want you to stop. This.” he repeated, his head still bowed. “I can’t take it anymore.”
The silence stretched across the room, as neither of them moved. There was only the soft buzz of insects from outside the window and the ting of aluminum as he lowered the can onto the coffee table.
She looked around the room, at the worn upholstery of the sofa, the baskets of unfolded laundry next to the coffee table, the TV remote with the dead batteries lying next to it. The dishes were unwashed in the sink, yesterday’s pasta still in the pot on the stove and the piles of unpaid bills growing on the kitchen table. A growing trail of broken toys abandoned in the dust on the floor wound its way down the hall to her daughter’s bedroom.
The sound of bare feet on the cold tile floor echoed its way down the hall and her daughter poked her head around the wall. “Mommy, you’re home!” her daughter exclaimed as she ran towards her and latched her small, skinny arms around her legs, almost ripping her nylons in the process. She slowly ran her fingers through the girl’s hair, untangling the knots and gently shushing her as the girl kept talking. She lifted her daughter up onto her hip, even though the child was getting to be much too big to do it anymore.
He made no sign that he noticed the girl, except for the slight tightening of his fingers on the can. She turned to face her daughter and took stock of her hair, the dirt on her face and the rip in her pajama bottoms at the knee.
“Did you have a good day at school?” she asked.
“I didn’t go.”
“Why not?”
“Daddy wasn’t awake to take me.”
“Really.”
“Yes,” the girl nodded, “I made myself toast for breakfast. Just like you showed me.” She brushed the girl’s hair out of her eyes and licked her fingers to wipe the smudge off her face, despite the girl’s protests.
“Did you put the toaster away after you were done?” The girl nodded. “Good job. Now why don’t you go start the bath for me? Do you remember how to turn on the tap?” And when the girl nodded, she gently lowered her off of her hip and watched her race away down the hall to the bathroom, kicking her dolls into the wall in the process as she ran by.
She turned back to face him. “Did you find a job yet?” she asked. And when he said nothing, she reached down to remove her shoes once more.
He raised his head as she approached him, squatting down so she could see his eyes. They were bloodshot and heavy with alcohol and a lack of sleep. His clothes were the same ones he’d worn yesterday and the day before. His hair was uncombed and the angles of his face sharp. She swallowed and turned her eyes away from him.
She ran her fingers over the edge of the envelope in her hands. “I’ll put this on the table,” she said. “There should be enough for rent and to buy groceries tomorrow.” She stood up and walked past the sofa. She placed the envelope down next to the pile of the bills and turned to leave the room.
“I’m sorry,” he said. She paused at the doorway and looked back. She smiled weakly but said nothing.
He was still sitting there long after she’d gone to bathe, her daughter’s voice echoing down the hall.
Monday, 10 February 2014
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.
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.
Thursday, 7 November 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, 6 November 2013
i am the machine : prologue
I do not understand why. I have done everything you wanted, will become anything you want me to be. I have practiced, observed, studied the tilt of her head when she laughs, how she blinks her eyes before answering any question you’ve asked her. And I am nothing short of perfect in my replication. For this is why I am here, to please, excite, follow your orders.
I do not understand why you are crying.
I am the Machine, as you rivet me, screw me tightly down, bolts snapping, wire stretched thin along the slow grinding gears of my body.
I am the Machine, as you refer to me. I know you meant for me to be neutral. However you could not help yourself as your were building me. There are certain aspects of my design that have lead me to conclude you accidentally applied your personal preferences. Yet it matters not to me whether I am recognizable as male or female to you. I am built to serve, accept and follow you. But with this, I wonder perhaps at some point in the future you will be able to see me as a woman, not merely a female and how that would affect our relationship.
I am the Machine and you are my master. I am built to serve, pleasure, follow orders, predict your every move. But I cannot understand, so please, before you lower the axe for the final blow, will you tell me, please, why are you crying?
I do not understand why you are crying.
I am the Machine, as you rivet me, screw me tightly down, bolts snapping, wire stretched thin along the slow grinding gears of my body.
I am the Machine, as you refer to me. I know you meant for me to be neutral. However you could not help yourself as your were building me. There are certain aspects of my design that have lead me to conclude you accidentally applied your personal preferences. Yet it matters not to me whether I am recognizable as male or female to you. I am built to serve, accept and follow you. But with this, I wonder perhaps at some point in the future you will be able to see me as a woman, not merely a female and how that would affect our relationship.
I am the Machine and you are my master. I am built to serve, pleasure, follow orders, predict your every move. But I cannot understand, so please, before you lower the axe for the final blow, will you tell me, please, why are you crying?
Tuesday, 29 October 2013
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.
and when it's over, i'll need you to do it again.
Sunday, 27 October 2013
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.
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.
Thursday, 3 October 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, 2 October 2013
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.
Tuesday, 1 October 2013
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.
Monday, 30 September 2013
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.
Saturday, 28 September 2013
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.
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.
Friday, 27 September 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, 25 September 2013
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.
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.
Monday, 16 September 2013
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.
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.
Monday, 9 September 2013
watching
somebody tell me if nothing in this body is sacred, the drum of a pulse beneath my wrist, the gasp of air between my teeth as i attempt to swallow any type of reaction down in hopes that it will cling hard enough to my ribs to remain with me even after the fact of this is over.
and i can't do that, rock my weight forward, grab the collar of his shirt as i attempt to climb the sides of his body, open the edges of my heart and pitch the blood forward to the rush between my ears. even if his hands are on me, a faint trace along the underside of my shirt, a curve of a palm against my neck, salt kisses against my lips, no matter how badly i want this, need this, desire this.
i am unable to if you are watching.
and i can't do that, rock my weight forward, grab the collar of his shirt as i attempt to climb the sides of his body, open the edges of my heart and pitch the blood forward to the rush between my ears. even if his hands are on me, a faint trace along the underside of my shirt, a curve of a palm against my neck, salt kisses against my lips, no matter how badly i want this, need this, desire this.
i am unable to if you are watching.
Wednesday, 28 August 2013
only girl in the world
there are the times when i am left with the memory of my feelings for you. the pale yellow sheen of the lights in the night, the red of passing vehicles on the way home in the dark, the faint echo of rihanna from the basement stereo as i dance, lay myself back along the guest bed in the middle of the rec room, feel the slide of my jeans against my hips, the press of my breasts against my bra as my stomach collapses in with each breath and the imagined sensation that you are with me.
i can hear the creak of the bed as you approach me, the rustle as i open my legs and the press of your weight as you pin me down, my legs around your hips, my arms wrapped around your back, my teeth in your neck as you begin to overpower everything i have in me.
take me for a ride. bite me, kiss me gently, slide your hands under my shirt, pin my wrists to either side of my head, force your crotch against mine without removing my jeans so i whimper when i feel your erection against my body and can do nothing about it.
i want you to fuck me, i want you to kiss me, i want you to smile, laugh, hold my hand in the daytime, hold my body in the night. i want you to want me and am willing to make compromises i had never considered before. i'll do anything to be your girl, your lover, your fuck buddy, your sweetheart. i'll give you a terrifying control over the whole situation.
and i had never considered that it would come to this. the silence wrapped around my heart as i smile when you talk, breathing shallow as i try to build my momentum for a move. any move at this point. i tell myself that you know, that this will work, should work, i want to make it work, for the first time ever i am not afraid of myself. i can make it work.
i want to be the only girl in the world. i want you to make me feel, bite my heart softly, gently pry my ribs open with a crack, kiss me slowly between smiles as you give me my false impression of your love.
for unfortunately, you never wanted me the way i wanted you, the way i thought you did before it was all over.
i want you to fuck me, i want you to kiss me, i want you to smile, laugh, hold my hand in the daytime, hold my body in the night. i want you to want me and am willing to make compromises i had never considered before. i'll do anything to be your girl, your lover, your fuck buddy, your sweetheart. i'll give you a terrifying control over the whole situation.
and i had never considered that it would come to this. the silence wrapped around my heart as i smile when you talk, breathing shallow as i try to build my momentum for a move. any move at this point. i tell myself that you know, that this will work, should work, i want to make it work, for the first time ever i am not afraid of myself. i can make it work.
i want to be the only girl in the world. i want you to make me feel, bite my heart softly, gently pry my ribs open with a crack, kiss me slowly between smiles as you give me my false impression of your love.
for unfortunately, you never wanted me the way i wanted you, the way i thought you did before it was all over.
Wednesday, 24 July 2013
Being Yours Part II: Gardener Kisses
I need to cry, collapse, collapse, knock myself senseless against the trunks if this forest. I'm crying, crying, drowning, frowning, sobbing, down, Collapse.
I don't want to feel you hands on me anymore. But they are, they are.
Your fingers are trailing my skin, catching the edge of my shirt, tugging, pulling, straightening my body that refuses to stand any longer.
I love your lips against mine, your fingers, your fingers in mine, my hair, crawling under the fabric of my clothes as if to attempt to unlock some forbidden door. And you're there, kissing me, kissing me senseless. Kissing me goodbye, kissing me as if yo make it a more jagged wound than it already is.
You whisper but I don't listen. And I regret it. I regret it as your soft hands leave mine, trace my lips once, not twice then vanish.
You vanish and I now know, even more than before, that I'm a fool. I'm your fool, your jester, your flower that pushed to hard and tried to blossom before its season.
I only tried to become a broken blossom for you and failed in the end, for the gardener can tell when the seeds are bad. These seeds are bad and the garden of this body and mind are now rotting.
I'm now falling apart.
I don't want to feel you hands on me anymore. But they are, they are.
Your fingers are trailing my skin, catching the edge of my shirt, tugging, pulling, straightening my body that refuses to stand any longer.
I love your lips against mine, your fingers, your fingers in mine, my hair, crawling under the fabric of my clothes as if to attempt to unlock some forbidden door. And you're there, kissing me, kissing me senseless. Kissing me goodbye, kissing me as if yo make it a more jagged wound than it already is.
You whisper but I don't listen. And I regret it. I regret it as your soft hands leave mine, trace my lips once, not twice then vanish.
You vanish and I now know, even more than before, that I'm a fool. I'm your fool, your jester, your flower that pushed to hard and tried to blossom before its season.
I only tried to become a broken blossom for you and failed in the end, for the gardener can tell when the seeds are bad. These seeds are bad and the garden of this body and mind are now rotting.
I'm now falling apart.
Tuesday, 23 July 2013
Being Yours Part I: Harvest
I can't hear you.
I can't touch you.
I can't taste your excess as it covers my face, plugging up my nose, mouth and ears until I've stopped breathing. I've stopped breathing.
I can't see you, let my eyes carve themselves across your skin, devour the scars and blemishes until I'm blind. I'm blind.
I can't smell your scent as it chokes me back and strangles me with soft tendrils of desire whispering around my neck.
I can't be with you anymore for you're still in possession of my heart, in all its broken pieces.
I can't, I can't, I can't.
I can't love you anymore.
I can't be with you anymore.
I can't let myself flower, bloom and self combust spontaneously into seed. Because you've already weeded this garden, pocketed the seeds and turned towards a new profession.
I can't touch you.
I can't taste your excess as it covers my face, plugging up my nose, mouth and ears until I've stopped breathing. I've stopped breathing.
I can't see you, let my eyes carve themselves across your skin, devour the scars and blemishes until I'm blind. I'm blind.
I can't smell your scent as it chokes me back and strangles me with soft tendrils of desire whispering around my neck.
I can't be with you anymore for you're still in possession of my heart, in all its broken pieces.
I can't, I can't, I can't.
I can't love you anymore.
I can't be with you anymore.
I can't let myself flower, bloom and self combust spontaneously into seed. Because you've already weeded this garden, pocketed the seeds and turned towards a new profession.
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