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.
