Of this funk but
Everything you say sounds tinged with impatience and
I know you are moments from snapping at me so
I put my sadness down for a moment and
Try harder to get ahead of your requests and
Do what you need before you have to ask but
When you finally go to sleep I
Am exhausted with nothing to hold except
The sadness I didn’t make you deal
With
25 October 2016
14 October 2016
39 Days
His eyes are hellfire, and he presses toward me. He means to be threatening, but I slide into his space like a cat. I am wired backwards. All I want is his hands on my throat, his teeth in my skin. I stare at the line of his throat, the curve of his jaw, his tightly pressed lips. I don't want to play. I don't want to giggle. I want to be hurt, to be worshipped, to be destroyed.
I watch his brow lift in understanding. He reads me like a book. He grabs my wrist and spins me around, shoving me forward into the wall, my elbow slamming into the wood. His breath is hot on the back of my neck, and I can feel the tingles trickle down my spine. His other hand grabs my hair and, more gently than I anticipated, tilts my head to the side. He nips my ear. Kisses my nape. Tightens his grip. I feel him get hard.
I push my ass against him, purring at the sensations. He lifts my hand over my head and pins it to the wall. His other hand releases my hair and my eyes squeeze shut as he drags his talons down the length of my back, excruciatingly slowly, devilishly deeply. I feel the blood well up, and the odd, cool wetness as it drips to my waist. I can feel him shifting, sometimes human, sometimes demon, somehow both. He is enjoying this. I need him to love this.
He bites into my shoulder as his fingers smear blood around my hips and toward my front. He hugs my lower belly as he grinds into my backside. I grind back, too desperate for contact to wait, too hungry for touch. My enthusiasm is rewarded with a deeper bite in the same spot and a hand that finds my hood and presses down against my clitoris, circling and rubbing. I don't know what wetness is blood and what is my own excitement, but he slips his fingers into me and I catch fire, biting down on my bottom lip and moaning while arching aggressively toward his hand. I
lay down on the bed, thinking about the amount of time we can afford to leave the child watching TV in the childproofed living room. I think about the chores I need to get done before cooking dinner, and the money that I don't have for the ingredients I need. I'm not upset - it's easier to use the down time of undressing to plan than to try to build anticipation.
He leaves his shirt on, but he removes his pants. I can smell three days of "not getting a chance" to shower, and I hold my breath until the blanket is over us. I'm sure I don't smell like a flower, either. But there are dishes to be done before the ingredient-less dinner can be made. A counter to clear and pennies to count. Maybe a coupon.
He turns on the fan, and while he looks for a condom, I stand and turn it off. I need to be able to hear if either kid needs us. Needs me. I get the light and check that the door is locked while he gets himself wrapped up. He drips spit on his dick and I recline, lifting a leg and reaching for the buzzy thing. He works himself into me. It's uncomfortable, but it will be easier once I start buzzing. I ask permission, because that's what I fucking do. He says yes.
I buzz. He thrusts. I remember that I have an appointment in the early morning and an insufferable amount of laundry to do. It feels alright, but I remind myself firmly that it doesn't matter that I'm me, and he just needs this taken care of so he'll be nice again. After all, we can't love each other if we don't fuck. I wait for him to finish with my eyes shut, trying to like the buzzing. He comes into the condom, thrusting too hard at the end and hurting me, but I shut up, because let's not ruin this. I push him away from me. I set down the buzzy thing and pull on my pants to go check on the awake child who is watching Netflix. He's doing fine. I go smoke a cigarette and read on Facebook about everyone having nice sex with nice people and I remind myself that I wanted this, I fostered this, I encouraged this, and this is what I am now.
There's not much point in forcing change.
I wouldn't be worth it.
And if I really wanted change, I could just tell myself to like it, and put the same effort into it that I would if it were with someone who excited me. Or at least enjoyed me. Or maybe didn't hate or blame me. If I REALLY wanted it to be different, all I have to do is make more noise and let him eat me.
This is my fault.
I watch his brow lift in understanding. He reads me like a book. He grabs my wrist and spins me around, shoving me forward into the wall, my elbow slamming into the wood. His breath is hot on the back of my neck, and I can feel the tingles trickle down my spine. His other hand grabs my hair and, more gently than I anticipated, tilts my head to the side. He nips my ear. Kisses my nape. Tightens his grip. I feel him get hard.
I push my ass against him, purring at the sensations. He lifts my hand over my head and pins it to the wall. His other hand releases my hair and my eyes squeeze shut as he drags his talons down the length of my back, excruciatingly slowly, devilishly deeply. I feel the blood well up, and the odd, cool wetness as it drips to my waist. I can feel him shifting, sometimes human, sometimes demon, somehow both. He is enjoying this. I need him to love this.
He bites into my shoulder as his fingers smear blood around my hips and toward my front. He hugs my lower belly as he grinds into my backside. I grind back, too desperate for contact to wait, too hungry for touch. My enthusiasm is rewarded with a deeper bite in the same spot and a hand that finds my hood and presses down against my clitoris, circling and rubbing. I don't know what wetness is blood and what is my own excitement, but he slips his fingers into me and I catch fire, biting down on my bottom lip and moaning while arching aggressively toward his hand. I
lay down on the bed, thinking about the amount of time we can afford to leave the child watching TV in the childproofed living room. I think about the chores I need to get done before cooking dinner, and the money that I don't have for the ingredients I need. I'm not upset - it's easier to use the down time of undressing to plan than to try to build anticipation.
He leaves his shirt on, but he removes his pants. I can smell three days of "not getting a chance" to shower, and I hold my breath until the blanket is over us. I'm sure I don't smell like a flower, either. But there are dishes to be done before the ingredient-less dinner can be made. A counter to clear and pennies to count. Maybe a coupon.
He turns on the fan, and while he looks for a condom, I stand and turn it off. I need to be able to hear if either kid needs us. Needs me. I get the light and check that the door is locked while he gets himself wrapped up. He drips spit on his dick and I recline, lifting a leg and reaching for the buzzy thing. He works himself into me. It's uncomfortable, but it will be easier once I start buzzing. I ask permission, because that's what I fucking do. He says yes.
I buzz. He thrusts. I remember that I have an appointment in the early morning and an insufferable amount of laundry to do. It feels alright, but I remind myself firmly that it doesn't matter that I'm me, and he just needs this taken care of so he'll be nice again. After all, we can't love each other if we don't fuck. I wait for him to finish with my eyes shut, trying to like the buzzing. He comes into the condom, thrusting too hard at the end and hurting me, but I shut up, because let's not ruin this. I push him away from me. I set down the buzzy thing and pull on my pants to go check on the awake child who is watching Netflix. He's doing fine. I go smoke a cigarette and read on Facebook about everyone having nice sex with nice people and I remind myself that I wanted this, I fostered this, I encouraged this, and this is what I am now.
There's not much point in forcing change.
I wouldn't be worth it.
And if I really wanted change, I could just tell myself to like it, and put the same effort into it that I would if it were with someone who excited me. Or at least enjoyed me. Or maybe didn't hate or blame me. If I REALLY wanted it to be different, all I have to do is make more noise and let him eat me.
This is my fault.
01 October 2016
Dichotomies
Having two of me is still better than having none.
April, 2012 - one me barelled off into a different dimension. My first daughter exists there, and that me is holding her, watching her grow and learn. I am happy and life continued on the path I had begun.
The other me, the empty one, the imposter, rests stagnating in this dimension. "Even in empty arms, I feel the weight of you." Directionless, hard headed, determined to never be too happy without her. Determined to bear out the consequences to my actions.
2016 - One me barels off out the door. Shedding my life like an old, scratchy, tight skin that can no longer contain the massive self that has swollen within it. Poised to run. Ready to go. Anywhere.
The other me, the empty one, relaxes into the familiar role. The martyr. The sacrificer. The bitter taste on my tongue is tempered by the repeated reminder that it's acceptable, what I deserve, what I beckoned. What I invited into my home like a blood sucker with a face like justice.
But, two mes is better than none.
I am a woman out of sync.
April, 2012 - one me barelled off into a different dimension. My first daughter exists there, and that me is holding her, watching her grow and learn. I am happy and life continued on the path I had begun.
The other me, the empty one, the imposter, rests stagnating in this dimension. "Even in empty arms, I feel the weight of you." Directionless, hard headed, determined to never be too happy without her. Determined to bear out the consequences to my actions.
2016 - One me barels off out the door. Shedding my life like an old, scratchy, tight skin that can no longer contain the massive self that has swollen within it. Poised to run. Ready to go. Anywhere.
The other me, the empty one, relaxes into the familiar role. The martyr. The sacrificer. The bitter taste on my tongue is tempered by the repeated reminder that it's acceptable, what I deserve, what I beckoned. What I invited into my home like a blood sucker with a face like justice.
But, two mes is better than none.
I am a woman out of sync.
25 September 2016
Not About Love
The song comes on Youtube Music. The song I used to listen to every single night after it happened. In the middle of the shift, at 2 or 3 am. Sometimes 5 am, when I was setting out breakfast, and I'd sing the words and hum the piano that I knew in my heart as deeply as I knew that stupid ache.
I stand as soon as I see her face, sideways, on a pillow. I go outside. He is washing dishes, he doesn't hear the song, or know what it means. I sit on a chair and I sing the words while I know they play through the television's speakers.
Why did I go outside?
Because I am not ready to share this with him. I can't trust enough to share this with him. I can't show weakness, can't invite him into my heartbreak that has been my deepest companion for four and a half years.
Because I am possessive, too, and this is mine.
It's 5:10 in the morning. The early cars already are drawing deep breaths past my door. I inhale. There's still so much to do. And last night's phrases, sick with lack of basis, are still writhing on my floor.
I watch him leaning over the sink, scrubbing at dishes and loading them into the washer.
Is this who I always want to see in my kitchen? Will I ever sit inside while this song plays? Will he ever knock on the door and ask if I'm decent, or will he always just barge in with his newest fleeting thought, ready to derail me and conquer my consciousness?
But I know. I know, because he's told me, because I ALREADY knew, that no one else can be in that kitchen. Maybe an empty space. But no one else can know this song. No one else will deal with me. Will entertain my vain panic attacks or my selfish temper tantrums.
But I'm not being fair, 'cause I chose to listen to that filthy mouth. But I'd like to choose right; take all the things that I said that he stole, put them in a sack, swing them over my shoulder, turn on my heel, step out of his sight, try to live in a lovelier light...
But this is not about love. 'Cause I am not in love. In fact, I can't stop falling out.
I stand as soon as I see her face, sideways, on a pillow. I go outside. He is washing dishes, he doesn't hear the song, or know what it means. I sit on a chair and I sing the words while I know they play through the television's speakers.
Why did I go outside?
Because I am not ready to share this with him. I can't trust enough to share this with him. I can't show weakness, can't invite him into my heartbreak that has been my deepest companion for four and a half years.
Because I am possessive, too, and this is mine.
It's 5:10 in the morning. The early cars already are drawing deep breaths past my door. I inhale. There's still so much to do. And last night's phrases, sick with lack of basis, are still writhing on my floor.
I watch him leaning over the sink, scrubbing at dishes and loading them into the washer.
Is this who I always want to see in my kitchen? Will I ever sit inside while this song plays? Will he ever knock on the door and ask if I'm decent, or will he always just barge in with his newest fleeting thought, ready to derail me and conquer my consciousness?
But I know. I know, because he's told me, because I ALREADY knew, that no one else can be in that kitchen. Maybe an empty space. But no one else can know this song. No one else will deal with me. Will entertain my vain panic attacks or my selfish temper tantrums.
But I'm not being fair, 'cause I chose to listen to that filthy mouth. But I'd like to choose right; take all the things that I said that he stole, put them in a sack, swing them over my shoulder, turn on my heel, step out of his sight, try to live in a lovelier light...
But this is not about love. 'Cause I am not in love. In fact, I can't stop falling out.
Lump...
I miss that stupid ache.
22 September 2016
Broccoli
The day we started dating, I had already turned him down a couple of weeks prior. But we found ourselves not so romantically at a diner, after I had too much coffee. My hands were shaking, part from the coffee, and part from bad news. He skewered a piece of broccoli on my fork and fed it to me flirtatiously.
It's a stupid story, I realize.
But at the time I saw in him someone who was patient and committed to taking care of me. I was wrong. But that was what it meant to me, that dumb piece of broccoli on a fork.
So we started dating.
For years, whenever we had broccoli with a meal, he'd feed me a piece. A ritual based in bad news. A sweet gesture. I guess.
This morning he tried to wake me up when I accidentally slept in. He brought me steamed vegetables (I think from a microwave pack, which I typically dislike). He put a piece of broccoli on the fork and tried to feed it to me.
I'm glad I refused (thinking in my dream state that it was a piece of raw shrimp), because looking back now, it was another ploy.
Since we've been "separated," he's been doing every trick he knows. Not being nicer. Just doing things. Mowing. Doing the dishes. Still leaving his trash around, but calling me pet names when he answers the phone. Making plans.
He's trying to pull me back in without having to respect the separation. He's trying to make me feel like the bitch so I'll settle down and return to the status quo.
Well. Joke's on him.
The more of the same act I see, the less I want to be around for more of the same. My dominant emotion right now is frustration at the patterns coming out. Not heartbreak over him.
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