I loved fucking Amber...the taste and feel of her being in some ways perfect pleasure. The sleek body and willing eyes, the coming and going of it all. The simple and basic knowledge in her eyes tha I wanted to fuck her...that I needed to fuck her. The power and grace and confidence and the sex that this knowledge gave her should be granted to everyone at least once in their life. My desire for her pumped her full of desire for me. I loved to be there and do that. The soft yet forcefull breasts and the tight filled up wholeness of her...the clean intense smell of womanhood arching out of her every pore. I failed just once to match mine for hers, and that was just a strange day. Unfortunately, it was the last time we did it, so the failure is sometimes all I can remember. Such is the way of things. I sometimes wonder where she is. She tried to have me, tried to have my heart. Her ackward grasp for me seemed so needless and strange then. Now when I look to it in my mind, it breaks me wide open.
All of them break me wide open now. All the women over all this time, who've reached out a hand and asked to be mine...to have me let them finally and fully inside. The memory kicks my head in. I am reminded of how naked and empty I have left myself...by pushing everyhing that was too real or solid as far from me as I could. I stumble down onto my knees. I prostrate myself there and try my best to let myself pray. But to what? To whom? For what greater or lesser good of things? The price we pay for a life lived loveless is simply baffling. I just didn't want to be vulnerable. I didn't want to be left there on a bed, crying out somebody's name who was gone and left. I thought I was loving. Thought that laughter and wit was a kind of love.
Most times, I don't think about the women I've left behind. It's amazing what you can forget about pain, when you're not feeling it. It's only possible for us to watch movies with fight scenes because we forget what it's like to be hit. When we watch our hero slug it out with our enemy, we see them hit and punch and kick one another for prolonged sessions of injury and fortitude. Have you ever seen a real fight? They last for seconds...because getting hit fucking sucks. But we forget...so the movie is believable. We forget what it's like to ache for real. We only know the movie-version of everything. And in movies, a man can get hit ten times and keep fighting, and in movies, you can do just about anything you want and get away with it.
For the longest time I've been in a spiral farther and farther down into myself. Even to have someone point out to me what I've become is a new acute kind of pain...a brand new style of hurting. I thought it hurt before, but it didn't until I was reminded of the burden I am. The weight of me on the world, I am told, is less like a warm blanket and more like the hanging branches of the weaping willow trees that lined the streets near where I grew my first tooth. Encroaching, overarching. Heavy with itself and capturing all the light.
At some point, a very long time ago, a friend told me something very similar. I was sitting with Russ and Lee, and those boys pointed out to me what a terrible pressese I was. They let me see how unhappy I made people, and how difficult I was to deal with. I believe, at some point, they were celebrated for their ability to put up with me. Well, I had just broken up with Christine. The first and longest. I cried in beds and screamed her name and my life was a burden for those around me.
And I've stayed away from ever loving like I loved her, ever since. So I wouldn't be a burden on others ever again.
But now, inexplicably, crazily, unbelievably...I am.
Sometimes I want to say exactly what I want to say. Most times, I just say the parts I'm not afraid of yet.
All of them break me wide open now. All the women over all this time, who've reached out a hand and asked to be mine...to have me let them finally and fully inside. The memory kicks my head in. I am reminded of how naked and empty I have left myself...by pushing everyhing that was too real or solid as far from me as I could. I stumble down onto my knees. I prostrate myself there and try my best to let myself pray. But to what? To whom? For what greater or lesser good of things? The price we pay for a life lived loveless is simply baffling. I just didn't want to be vulnerable. I didn't want to be left there on a bed, crying out somebody's name who was gone and left. I thought I was loving. Thought that laughter and wit was a kind of love.
Most times, I don't think about the women I've left behind. It's amazing what you can forget about pain, when you're not feeling it. It's only possible for us to watch movies with fight scenes because we forget what it's like to be hit. When we watch our hero slug it out with our enemy, we see them hit and punch and kick one another for prolonged sessions of injury and fortitude. Have you ever seen a real fight? They last for seconds...because getting hit fucking sucks. But we forget...so the movie is believable. We forget what it's like to ache for real. We only know the movie-version of everything. And in movies, a man can get hit ten times and keep fighting, and in movies, you can do just about anything you want and get away with it.
For the longest time I've been in a spiral farther and farther down into myself. Even to have someone point out to me what I've become is a new acute kind of pain...a brand new style of hurting. I thought it hurt before, but it didn't until I was reminded of the burden I am. The weight of me on the world, I am told, is less like a warm blanket and more like the hanging branches of the weaping willow trees that lined the streets near where I grew my first tooth. Encroaching, overarching. Heavy with itself and capturing all the light.
At some point, a very long time ago, a friend told me something very similar. I was sitting with Russ and Lee, and those boys pointed out to me what a terrible pressese I was. They let me see how unhappy I made people, and how difficult I was to deal with. I believe, at some point, they were celebrated for their ability to put up with me. Well, I had just broken up with Christine. The first and longest. I cried in beds and screamed her name and my life was a burden for those around me.
And I've stayed away from ever loving like I loved her, ever since. So I wouldn't be a burden on others ever again.
But now, inexplicably, crazily, unbelievably...I am.
Sometimes I want to say exactly what I want to say. Most times, I just say the parts I'm not afraid of yet.