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Some things you never get used to
Dec. 30th, 2005 09:48 amSlow. Slowly. You have to watch me, look at me slowly, because you move fast and I disappear, gone before you know what's happened or can even say goodbye. In the morning a sadness starts in my chest and diverges into my limbs and I fight it with desire, with a craving that wells up so strong and fast I can cry at the drop of a hat or come at the sight of a piece of skin.
I can fck all night, but not with you, baby.
You move too fast and I want it soft and hard and rough and sweet but always, always slow. Because who has time to count those hours and seconds and add up those calculations and what do they mean anyway? I arrange them, surround myself in them, curl up and wrap my knees around them, pull them tight, but they poke and prod and stand stationary and I want it to move over me, through me, like liquid, like air, like skin. Not just like I'm here.
My chest opens me up and my heart beats so strong it pounds against your head there and could make your ears bleed but I don't let it. I keep it locked up for the moment, pull it out later when I need it. When I'm on the bus and someone asks me what time it is and what's the cross street closest to their destination, and I know, I always know, because I'm the smartest person in the room and the dumbest mtherfcker on the planet.
At night I whisper "I'm back, I'm back" but in the morning, I lose it. Where do I go? I look under the bed and find the dog sleeping.
I look at power lines and I see lonely and isolation and raw fucking. I want to have sex while climbing the towers and then I want to wrap my fingers around the wires and feel the jolt of current disrupt every cell in my body, exploding in a chain reaction, and then I can finally come.
My legs are ignored but they carry me to the bed, to the chair, to the house across town or in other time zones. My arms could carry three thousand pounds but instead I use them to reach all the way inside you, pushing all the way into you, finding all the ways to make you forget.
I cannot blame you for not looking, when I hide, when I deflect, when I say, no, no, it's just you, I am only here standing, and fine. Because what would you see anyway? Or rather, it's a gift I'm still finding a way to bestow, search for who is worthy when really I can hardly know it myself. I'm only looking for help to open it. But baby, don't test it, don't tease it, I will find it and you will know.
Let me see for myself.
I will sleep for decades every night and dream of all the ways my body will twist and turn and fold and I will offer it on an altar to be consumed, to open up my chest, my heart, my legs, my arms. And when that desire opens up it will flow into everything I touch, every piece of food I cook, every door I close, every word I type, every piece of your body.
I can fck all night, but not with you, baby.
You move too fast and I want it soft and hard and rough and sweet but always, always slow. Because who has time to count those hours and seconds and add up those calculations and what do they mean anyway? I arrange them, surround myself in them, curl up and wrap my knees around them, pull them tight, but they poke and prod and stand stationary and I want it to move over me, through me, like liquid, like air, like skin. Not just like I'm here.
My chest opens me up and my heart beats so strong it pounds against your head there and could make your ears bleed but I don't let it. I keep it locked up for the moment, pull it out later when I need it. When I'm on the bus and someone asks me what time it is and what's the cross street closest to their destination, and I know, I always know, because I'm the smartest person in the room and the dumbest mtherfcker on the planet.
At night I whisper "I'm back, I'm back" but in the morning, I lose it. Where do I go? I look under the bed and find the dog sleeping.
I look at power lines and I see lonely and isolation and raw fucking. I want to have sex while climbing the towers and then I want to wrap my fingers around the wires and feel the jolt of current disrupt every cell in my body, exploding in a chain reaction, and then I can finally come.
My legs are ignored but they carry me to the bed, to the chair, to the house across town or in other time zones. My arms could carry three thousand pounds but instead I use them to reach all the way inside you, pushing all the way into you, finding all the ways to make you forget.
I cannot blame you for not looking, when I hide, when I deflect, when I say, no, no, it's just you, I am only here standing, and fine. Because what would you see anyway? Or rather, it's a gift I'm still finding a way to bestow, search for who is worthy when really I can hardly know it myself. I'm only looking for help to open it. But baby, don't test it, don't tease it, I will find it and you will know.
Let me see for myself.
I will sleep for decades every night and dream of all the ways my body will twist and turn and fold and I will offer it on an altar to be consumed, to open up my chest, my heart, my legs, my arms. And when that desire opens up it will flow into everything I touch, every piece of food I cook, every door I close, every word I type, every piece of your body.
