Yesterday I almost leaned in and put the three years of bad timing to an end but since my recent reformation, the mantra being ‘one at a time’, I had to keep myself back.
Not to mention the fact that he had eyes for the stick-like baby of a friend I had with me.
She thinks I’m mad at her. Not really, I think to myself.
It’s just that every second you’re near me, is a second wasted from not watching morally degrading pornography that I can masturbate to.
I could never allow myself to get married or attach to another bodily host in the form of a relationship. Not to brag, because this fact is more of a tragedy rather than a rite, but if I inscribed my life together, I would have a very legitimate autobiography that would make green bucks off of the silly persons who need to pinch themselves through books and be reminded that their life is better than people like us. the facts of my life are so convoluted, they are reminiscent of plots that overachieving authors try to put together and literary critics respond with, “TRYING TOO HARD. POSER”
But it is safe to say that the only posing I’ve done was for his dark love on a fleeting digital screen embedded into an account. Suffice to say, I did it multiple times for equal mementos of his sex but I always lost.
Apparently I inherited my mother’s manner of sinning.
me and my mother will never be civil, or trim cakes, or share recipes, or hug, or feel comfortable sleeping side by side, or be blood sisters except for that odd one week where we launch beaded blood at one another.
she will never care for me any more than she hated me when I was inside her womb gnawing at her flesh; even then we couldn’t mix.
I was not able to greet Mother dear this morning before she ran to a taxi after Father fellow finally used a word I was thinking of for so long.
I was too busy because I was thinking of my loves in the bedroom upstairs. The combination of light and dark obscures reality enough I think.
I am so sorry my light, my hope for love. I disappointed you so much in 12 hours.
First it was last night when I had your wing confess her love for me on those silly social networking sites you abhor. I used your wing enough that it kept you from flying with compassion and exoneration. And then I interacted with the dark one today. You were in the same room. We were silent, I kept my word to you. I limited how much I looked at him.
But my light my light, you probably could tell how much I radiated being near the darkness again. You can tell how much I missed my old friend and his sins.
Our first interaction in a long time. We were in the same room as usual but we knew the forces would push us together some time. Some time soon. Now but not exactly now; we both were too stubborn to let it be.
That look of your face with your upturned questioning brow. My over-exaggerated, exasperated flip of the shoulder. I would always want you to come closer, don’t you know?
You gave me a variation of that face before the first time you moved in on me. But the times are different now. I still say no with my silence. But we were able to function without a word from our lips escaping our mouth.
Almost how we wished our attempts of making sex not love would have been in the old days.
To think the old days were only a little more than a month gone.
I miss you terribly you man-slut.
they made me sick. getawayfrommedon’ttouchme
I am a horrible person
because I right now am wet with the aftermath
of the destruction caused by thoughts
memories
old phantoms of
him.
…Afterwards I see his beloved ramble on with the naiiveties of smitten puppies and I scoff and flip a finger up from the messy hand.
If I found another love, will they stop being dark?
If I dedicated him to the sun, will I stop living in shadow?
If I experienced him, would my carnal desires stop being so extreme and just rest on the soft silken caresses of baby skin?
If I loved him, would it ever tackle with such force the love I felt for another?
I cannot write when you’re not here. I cannot feel extremes when you’re not here. I cannot feel the lash of knives abrasive against me when you’re not here. I can’t properly enjoy explosions when you’re not here. I cannot lie languidly in thought of you when you’re not here. You stopped living in my heart since I chose for you to. But you have not come back. You’re not here.
I can’t be beautiful when you’re not here.
I wanted to send one little snippet poem about lustful love to a set of judgmental people but rewrote and rewrote it because they usually act like one of the hims and say that I’m not good enough at sucking their cocks,
oh I’m sorry about that,
so now I pause and wait and surf
around for real lust
displayed on the faces of women who fake the love of the human body
but lust for pieces of flimsy green paper.
Just kidding, I am feeling licentious right now and just need release.
We have not spoken in almost one week. Where are you now?
I’m actually thinking of posting my ‘personal’ tumblr on here. It’s not really my personal, but it’s the one the majority of real-life people know me as. To queue or not to queue that is the question.
But if I do, doing so might break the barrier, the magic, the fabric of our lives. Ha..cotton advertisements. The fabric of my life should be lace and velcro, rough velcro and skin to skin.
