tigersaint

the twenty-eighth night:

"Our responsibilities did not begin in dreams, though they began in bed. -- Frank O'Hara"

i wrote this on the floor at the foot of the bed where i waited, curled up like a cat, for him to come home.

it had been weeks since we had seen each other.

when he finally came in the bedroom i climbed all over him...
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the twenty-seventh night:

i spent the night alone, making myself into a girl.

i painted my toenails red, i buffed my fingernails until they shined.

i plucked and exfoliated and mud masqued and now my skin is softer than velvet, softer than cotton that's been washed hundreds of thousands of times.

i shaved and lotioned and wrapped until i was smooth, i perfumed and musked...
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the twenty-sixth night:

tonight, i shook a man's hand and it made my knees weak. his hand completely engulfed mine. it was like holding an adult's hand to cross the street when i was 6 years old.

he was a friend of a good friend of mine whom i hadn't seen for over a year and a half. they called that they were in town...
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the twenty-fifth night:

i lay a bedsheet soaked through with my dried sweat and cum and every scent of me on the floor. i walk around it, barefoot, in circles.

i look for a pattern in the stains, but there is none. like everything else, they are incidental, no design, no purpose.

the only meaning they have are those that i give to them.

i...
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the twenty-fourth night:

i close my heart back up in the same trusted, well-worn box but this time with a few new locks.

everytime a piece of me falls away i look forward to the new scar. at this point i am made up of scars almost entirely, new skin like the seams for old skin, a rag doll that's been well loved and therefore...
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the twenty-third night:

i was given a bed, and even a room. the bed is soft and large, i sleep on it sideways, curled up at the foot.

there is a large mirror at the head of the bed where i have written poems along the edges in black marker. then i took off my shirt and wrote the same poems on myself, lonely and...
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the twenty-second night:

listen, i am tired and cold. i am bleeding, my muscles ache. i am going to curl up alone on the floor tonight, the headphones cupping my ears like the hands of a lover in a soft kiss.

there is so much more to tell you, of arguments and tearing pages out of books, of secret notes slipped to strangers and logic...
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the twenty-first night:

i am a poor, broke, humble girl but tonight i was pampered in every way imaginable.

i am no starfucker, and certainly i am rarely impressed by material things. but let no one tell you differently:

it is a special aphrodisiac to dine with one who is rich and powerful. the kind of man who has the entire restaurant at its knees....
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the twentieth night:

330am, alone.

there is a storm outside, hitting the window like impatient fingers drumming on a glass tabletop.

i don't have a bed here, i have been sleeping alone on the floor. i have only a pillow, the old blanket that i keep in my backpack when i am travelling and a few pieces of clothing. i am in my pjammas, a...
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the nineteenth night:

he's been taking photographs of my face while he fucks me. he holds the camera at angles and the flash goes off blinding me momentarily, making me dizzy. sometimes he misses me entirely, our rhythm throwing my face out of frame, but in many you can see everything, my face, the sweat, his cum, bite marks on my cheeks and throat. in...
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