There is an aching within my chest and I'm digging, digging, etching my way to the source of this endless throbbing, this ceaseless, dulling thud.
And I can't help but wonder... will I find you there? At the epicenter of the world? The origin of my pain? Will I find you there- smiling up at me, unassuming, stoned, craning your neck for a peek up my skirt?
I know this answer all too well.
***
Hours later and still no sleep- my body is jerking in exhaustion. You'd think I'd be lethargic, numb, unable to move, but this pressure has had some kind of counter-effect. It's pulling my limbs along, as if they were controlled by strings. My puppeteer, where are you taking me? What are your intentions? What are you thinking when you bite my lip, tugging at the flesh? I will not follow you there, cannot lie between your thighs, dig my feet into your sheets. We have traversed some unspoken barrier. It has paralyzed me- allowing me to be ravaged, pillaged, used by this thing I once called love, once recognized as tenderness. On that Sunday morning, I let you hold me, let you watch me sleep after you'd exhausted me and all was sugar and bliss. Looking back, I recognize longing (love in it's own right) and I want to cling to the air that filled my room, the air that we breathed in so hungrily the Sunday I turned 19. But---
For now I hide my knees and taste the inside of my teeth. I will not cry for love, will no longer bare my breasts for anyone with strings attached to tricky fingers. I am cutting, cutting, cutting. My love, my puppeteer, you should have taken better care of me.
And I can't help but wonder... will I find you there? At the epicenter of the world? The origin of my pain? Will I find you there- smiling up at me, unassuming, stoned, craning your neck for a peek up my skirt?
I know this answer all too well.
***
Hours later and still no sleep- my body is jerking in exhaustion. You'd think I'd be lethargic, numb, unable to move, but this pressure has had some kind of counter-effect. It's pulling my limbs along, as if they were controlled by strings. My puppeteer, where are you taking me? What are your intentions? What are you thinking when you bite my lip, tugging at the flesh? I will not follow you there, cannot lie between your thighs, dig my feet into your sheets. We have traversed some unspoken barrier. It has paralyzed me- allowing me to be ravaged, pillaged, used by this thing I once called love, once recognized as tenderness. On that Sunday morning, I let you hold me, let you watch me sleep after you'd exhausted me and all was sugar and bliss. Looking back, I recognize longing (love in it's own right) and I want to cling to the air that filled my room, the air that we breathed in so hungrily the Sunday I turned 19. But---
For now I hide my knees and taste the inside of my teeth. I will not cry for love, will no longer bare my breasts for anyone with strings attached to tricky fingers. I am cutting, cutting, cutting. My love, my puppeteer, you should have taken better care of me.