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.

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.

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 : 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.

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.

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.

Kissed Her

I can feel the bruises forming beneath the sockets of my eyes, the lids heavy with the tears I haven’t managed to spill yet as I let my lashes flutter softly in an attempt to close. She’s smiling as she waves at me.
The blue of her dress matches his tie and the enraptured glow in her eyes as Kirsten pulls them over to the side of the arena for a photo. Everyone is just milling about now, laughing, trying not to spill food on their clothes and wishing that the committee had been smart enough to provide chairs. They probably thought it’d be too difficult to provide chairs for two hundred and fifty teenagers in addition to the food.
We’re all just waiting for the final call now so we can put the gowns over our prom attire and start the ceremony.
I look towards my date, who’s in conversation with a girl who was in our math class. We’re dressed in a loosely matching fashion, both in complementary shades of green that could mean we’d planned it or it was accidental. It was accidental by the way; I chose my dress to complement hers. She doesn’t know though.
And I intend to keep it that way.
I watch her detach herself from his arms, laughing as he kisses her lightly on the lips, his fingers lingering on her waist as she turns and starts over towards me. “Sarah, take another photo with me.” This is a demand, not a request. I pull my camera out of my matching purse and hand it over to Kirsten, who’s now been unofficially designated the night’s photographer.
I wrap my arm around her waist and squeeze gently, not enough for Kirsten to detect as she fumbles, trying to balance three cameras at once. It’s still enough for her to notice though, as her expression freezes in a large smile.
“Don’t,” she whispers, “Not now.” Her breath is in my hair, her right earring softly scraping my cheek as she turns to meet my eyes.
“Then when?” I mutter under my breath as I reach up to adjust one of the loose curls of her hair. She doesn’t answer. The flash goes off and one of the chaperons starts yelling for everyone to get into their gowns.
She squeezes my hand reassuringly as she lets go to retrieve her camera from Kirsten and I feel the ring on her left hand bite into my fingers before she lets go.
There’s ten minutes before the ceremony starts.

“We shouldn’t,” she gasps. I don’t answer but continue running my fingers through her hair, tracing the lines of her face and the curve of her lips. The basement is dark and the movie is playing loud enough to cover any sounds that might travel through the heating pipes. My brother is in the garage with his guitar, trying to rally the half of his band that bothered to show up for practice. My parents left for the movies an hour ago.
We’re practically alone.
This is the second time we’ve kissed. The first one doesn’t count because we’d both been drunk and it’d been a dare. Plus her boyfriend had been watching.
Her hands slowly curl inwards, clutching my thighs as I lean forward and softly brush my mouth against hers.
“Again,” she whispers as I pull back.
“Again,” I mumble against her mouth as she lifts her hands up, tangling them in my hair, pulling me back towards her.

I have no idea where my parents are seated in the arena. I’d told them to sit on the left so they’d be able to see my face as I walk over to shake hands with the principal and receive a fake diploma. The government will mail us out the real ones sometime in the middle of august after all the high school graduation examination results have come back. In the mean time we get a piece of paper with our name stating we’re a part of the graduating class and are allowed to take part in the after party.
We manage to shuffle our way into our seats, aiming for a semblance of control. We’ve barely found it as the opening speech ends and the first name is called. Ten seconds later the first beach ball appears.
I’ve found where she’s sitting, in the middle of the opposite side of the stage, at the end of her row. She claps wildly as her boyfriend crosses the stage, the speaker droning on about his plans after graduation. I try to blur them over in my mind.
I only want to watch her for as long as I can.
We’re now on our third beach ball and we’re only half way through the ‘c’s. The others were confiscated as quickly as the teachers could manage. I have no idea how many more we’re going to go through. It looks like it’s going to be a long night.
They call her row and now I’m counting down until she crosses the stage. The girl three people before her trips over her heels on her way up the stairs. She sits up laughing, stands and takes a bow before she stumbles over to receive her diploma.
Two left.
One.

“This has to end.” She sits up, drawing my blankets over her breasts as she turns back to me and frowns. I’m still smiling from the aftershocks though. She’s naked, willing and in my bed. Things have been going perfectly.
Well, they were.
“What?” Even to my ears that sounded hollow.
“You know,” she whispers, “This.” She waves her left arm, the one that isn’t holding up the blanket, in a wide circle to encompass the two of us in my bed. The sight of her nipples as the blanket slips isn’t enough to even out the tone of her words. Besides, I know she didn’t plan that on purpose.
I sit up beside her, gritting my teeth. “Give me a good reason why.”
“I’ve got a boyfriend.”
“I knew that. You knew that. Didn’t stop us the first time.” Or the second. And the third. “What makes it different now?”
“Sarah, I can’t handle this anymore.” Her eyes are wide and from the way the blue in them shimmers I know she’s about to cry. I reach over to put my arm around her shoulder but she shrugs me off.
“I can’t handle the sneaking around. I didn’t expect it to go this far.”
“Don’t tell me this.”
“This needs to end Sarah.”
“It this because we’re friends? Or because we’re both women and you’ve decided you like men better?”
She glares at me. “I don’t even know what to call our relationship Sarah,” she hisses. “All we seem to do is sleep together.”
All the late night movies, all the texts, phone calls, notes in class, all the laughter whips through my head. “That’s not true.” I whisper.
“Sarah, I feel like we’re fuck-buddies,” she says softly.
I feel like she’s slapped me. “I love you.” I whisper as I slowly take her hand and trace my fingers through hers.
“You don’t mean that.” she whispers, “Not like that.”
“Will you just listen to me!”
She shakes your head and slip out of bed before I can tighten my grip on her hand. “He asked me to marry him Sarah. I said yes.”
As I look up at her standing naked in front of my bed, hair tousled, fading hickies left from him trailing up her neck, I feel like I’ve been sicker punched in the gut. She’d told me that I couldn’t leave marks on her.
I finally understand why.

“Emily Collins.” And she’s walking. Hand outstretched to shake the principal’s as the other one tucks her diploma under her arm. I can hear her father and her brothers’ yelling in the background and her mother crying as she walks down the aisle, smile radiant, waving to the crowd.
And I’m laughing and clapping as the tears start to slip down my cheeks. She’s walking, one arm raised in a triumphant wave of victory, the flash of her ring from the arena lights a glint out of the corner of my eyes. I can’t quite manage to hold it in.
It’s all crashing down around me. The scent of her perfume, the scrape of her teeth along the curve of my ear, the press of her lips against mine, the ring of her laugh in my ears, the curve of her smile, the weight of her breasts in my palms and the unspoken misunderstood expectance of a promise.
It’s all finally over.