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I want her always. I want her to be just mine. The untouched, the rare, the pure and wholesome. I want just her for just me. That is how I want her. Yet, I want to try and experience other things. I want to revel in the bodies of those who allow me to enter them. I quake with thirst to try and feel something that is missing in me. It is after I had cum and I allow myself to shudder over these bodies, I think of her. My thumb sliding across her bottom lip and into her warm mouth. It is then I feel the most empty and worthless. To her I am joy and to her I am hero. To her I am love and wholesome and innocent. In her eyes I feel love. How can I get that? I can I keep her there, just like that. How can I keep her to stay how I want her to stay? I play games. I do. I keep her locked so she will not move. I come home to her warm and delicate, she is always full of grace. I want to keep her and never share her the way she thinks she has me. I am torn into bits when she knows how hurt I am and torn even more that she cares for such a monster like me. I’m terror to a heart like hers. She never knows. Will she?


Loving company

I understand what’s important isn’t my health or your health. I can tell because of the way you spend your nights “relaxing” filling up your stomach and poisoning your body with every drink. Just sitting there wasting away. Just sip after sip. You and her have that and so much more in common, right? It’s because together you both resonate the loneliness when misery loves company.

New Flesh

I was sixteen when I decided to ya know make a wound. The kind of wound that would wound you for life. It is the kind of wound that leaves this kind of scar that you will see forever. No matter how much this kind of scar fades, you will always kind of see this faint out line of new flesh. As this new kind of flesh ages and tans over the years from the changes of life, you will still see it. Somehow it will always be paler or stretched, shiny, gritty, deeper and new to you. It will be a reminder to you. What it will remind you of at the time you are looking at it, will be up to you. For years, for years I have looked at the one, just one… The one that is on my left arm, between the crook of my elbow and a little lower from the wrist. It’s faint, but deep. I can see the vein that was nicked… just a tap. I never meant to go so- it’s there. It’s there and I always thought of him. My mind will catch him first… However after being seventeen and eighteen and he just stayed sixteen the scar slowly began its journey into something else. It reminded me I was lost. It reminded me that I sucked. It was there to remind me that people hate me, that I hate me. The reminder of negative, of minus and of null. I couldn’t help the way I thought about that scar. It changed me. However years went by, twenty, twenty-one, two; I changed. I never kept it the same. Life began to teach that who I am, hated who I was. It never stopped being that string tied tightly around a finger, but people kept wondering “What is its presence supposed to remind me of?” and the worry carried on. The anxiety and hiding who I was and who I am still. Was I still that person? Twenty-five, twenty- six and then seven… I had looked at the scar in those years differently as I started to look at those years askew as well as the rest of life. It’s not like the view isn’t clouded with anxious thoughts of who I am supposed to be, but understanding that the choices I am making created the person writing this instead of getting high in the backseat of cars and continuing to be angry about my mother drinking and the manhandling at home. Instead of holding onto anger and resenting everyone who didn’t “understand me” or who had “done me wrong”. It’s difficult to finally evolve your thinking into remembering “it was me who had to change”. I changed. It wasn’t what was around me that was changing me entirely. I had the choice to change all this time and that’s what that kinda scar reminds me of now. Forever now this scar on my left wrist that is deep, dark, long and unevenly stretched with a tattoo that I had my friends dot into me in their parent’s kitchen with a safety pin and a ball point pen: “Only you can change yourself”.

Death or something like it.

When the news is grim it’s hard to accept. Learning that someone you love wants to give up, it hurts. My best friend’s grandma who has always been just as much of a grandma to me is letting go and refusing anymore treatment. All of her life she has been an extremely strong willed woman and independent which makes it difficult to understand how weak she feels. Worst of all she refuses to have anyone, but her daughter and her granddaughter see her in such state- she wants to be remembered differently. A lot of emotions ran through me when I heard that I could not visit her, that she wouldn’t want to see anyone else she loves. I know I have to respect her and I understand her request, but it’s still difficult to overcome that wish. I want to be selfish and see her so badly. It is a painful limbo that she is experiencing.


Writing in the morning.

Something rare happened. I woke up at 6:45 AM awaited for the beloved nephew to arrive because I am the only one available now in the family to watch him at the ungodly hour. When I descended from the basement where my bedroom currently resides to begin the daily ritual of opening up the house I had noticed what peculiar weather we’re having for the month of August.

The wind was gusty, the clouds low bellied and grey; sweater weather. A cool 57 degrees lingered in the house which reduced the swelling of the wood window panes and doors from yesterdays humidity. An urge rose up inside of me when I begged the front closet door not to creak and I could hear the soft wind chimes from the front yard, I wanted to write. I looked at the sky a couple of more times out the big picture window, a book in hand and knew that today was the perfect day.

Tea brewing on the stove. Grandpa and nephew sharing blankets on the couch in the center of the small living space. Auntie vigorously typing away on her laptop at the table. This is how I wish most of my mornings would start. Here at the table is where I’ll appreciate this morning even more. Let the aspirations reign.