I Hate You

I hate that you make me smile with your presence. I hate the way my body craves your touch, however slight, however fleeting. I hate that you consume my thoughts. I hate the high I get when you’re around and the crashing low when you’re not. I hate that I spend hours thinking of tracing the lines of you with gentle fingertips, of what your face would look like while looking down at me, of the taste of your lips. I hate that I want to know every single inch of you as well as I know my own face.

Feelings are messy. They’re inconvenient and frustrating and intense and I don’t want them. I hate that you make me feel them. I want to be cold. I want to be closed off. But you… you melt my armor and make me want to lay bare my most tender parts. I hate that you turn me into a giggling fool, as soft and pliable as gold when it is my wish to be unbending steel. I hate that every cell in my body seeks out yours as if they depend on you to survive. 

I hate that I spend my days wishing you were mine, not ever knowing if you will be. I hate that you’ll never read these words. I hate that you’ll never know how just one look from you will turn my mood from dark to light. I hate that I will likely have to watch you love another. I hate that I’ll have to let you slip from my grasp. I hate that I have to worship you from afar. I hate that I am scared to tell you how badly I want you for fear of being rejected by you. 

I hate that I fear losing you when I’ve never even had you… 

The Thought

 “I have a thought” she said. 

“What kind of thought?” He asked. 

 

She stepped in close and looked up at him, admiring the sharp line of his jaw. “Well, first, I want you to give me the gentlest of kisses.” He gazed down at her, through hooded eyes, reached out and lifted her chin with one hooked finger, leaned down to until their lips almost touched and whispered “No.” 

A wry smile danced on his lips. The corner of her mouth curled in a smirk. She grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him close to her. “Now.” She commanded, looking him directly in his eyes and he returned the gaze, lips hovering so precariously close. She felt him smile. 

“Why should I?” He asked. 

“Because I want it.” She replied. 

“That’s not enough of a reason.” He said. 

“Of course it is.” She laughed. 

His smile faded, his face suddenly serious “give me a good reason and I just may.”

She let go of his shirt, stepped back, and looked him over. What were her reasons? Should she tell him that she was curious to see if his kiss would send electric shivers through her body as she suspected it would? Could she bring herself to admit that she dreamt of it? She stood there thinking of all the reasons she may have wanted to feel his touch and she could only come up with one…

“Because I need it” she whispered. 

He closed the distance between them quickly, reached out and took her face in both hands and kissed her tenderly. For a moment… the world disappeared. There was nothing in existence but them and this kiss. She felt it all the way to her toes, tiny tingling after shocks running through her skin like she had lightning in her veins. 

His lips were soft, his tongue sweet. His hands dropped to her shoulders as he stepped back, finally breaking away after what felt like an eternity. She closed her eyes wistfully, already missing the feeling of his body so near to hers. How delicious was his touch. To feel his skin against hers was intoxicating. She reveled in his lingering electricity, feeling light headed from the headiness of it all. She heard him laugh quietly under his breath and when she opened her eyes, she was alone, with only the lasting warmth of his skin as her companion.

The Daydream

 How do you write when the right words won’t come? How do I paint what I see when I look at him when every word I choose isn’t vivid enough… bright enough?

Do I speak of him in terms of nature as they share a beauty that is savage and relentless? Do I say that he is a flower, colorful and vibrant and alluring? Do I say that I want to strip back his petals and lay his delicate parts bare? How do I eloquently say that I want to expose those tender, secret parts to the air and fill my lungs with him? That I want to breathe in his scent and wear it on my skin as perfume?

How do I say that I want to play with him as a cat plays with a mouse or a bird? That I want to spend all night exploring his body’s response to my touch and all of its variances? That I’ve imagined hearing his breath catch in his throat while I have my lips wrapped around him. That in my fantasies, I’ve made him throw his head back, his eyes to the sky, and call out to whatever god he worships while his hands are buried in my hair. How do I tell you that I have imagined tasting him on my lips… his essence coating my tongue, honey sweet and animal musk. 

How do I tell you that I crave him?

How do I tell you that I’ve seen us afterwards? We are in bed. He is laying with his arm tucked under his head, leg bent at the knee, the sheets in a tangle around his waist. His eyes are foggy and his hair is tousled. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, sheet pressed to my chest, my back exposed to him. I light a joint and take a deep inhale before I pass it to him. We smoke and he starts asking me for advice. I give him unbiased insight. He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me back into him. I am the antithesis of him. He is sharp, angular and made up of sinew and chorded muscle. He is hewn from stone. His body was made for power and strength. I am soft and curved, my body was made for carrying life within it. The roundness of hips, the thickness of my thighs, the weight of my breasts… I embody the divine feminine and this is what he likes most about me. He asks me about everything as if I have all the answers, as if my age grants me the access to forbidden knowledge. He lays his head in my lap, looking up at me with those eyes that catch all starlight within them. His adoration makes me want him all the more. I lean down and kiss his soft lips, feeling them part against mine, the tips of our tongues tentatively and tenderly mingling… 

Do I describe making love to him in terms of the galaxy? Atoms whirling through space, crashing together and creating the heat that brought life to the solar system, merging and splitting for all eternity. How do I say I want him to lose himself in me and me in him? That I want us to worship each other? 

How can I do him or my daydreams justice when the appropriate words have yet been invented? 

Trying to Force It

I've been told that I should write about my thoughts. My thoughts are the tangled mass of wires behind the TV. Unplug the wrong one and now you have to wait for the router to reboot. It takes a modicum of clarity to sort through that mess to find exactly what you are looking for. A clarity that I do not currently have.


I've been told that I should write about my pain. My pain is a gaping gunshot wound, constantly bleeding. Writing about it is pouring lemon juice directly into it, searing and burning every bit of raw nerve it touches. It only ever stops for a moment. I move slightly and reopen the stitches, and I am back to hemorrhaging on the floor, blood pooling under me.


I've been told that I should write about my sadness. My sadness is a parasite, always invading my body. It eats away at the small moments of happiness and joy.  Sometimes, it opens me up to it's viral friends, self loathing and mania. Even if I rid myself of them momentarily, it always comes back, ready to infect me all over again.


I have been told that I should just write. Doesn't matter if what I write makes sense... just write it out...


I guess this is me trying...

The Spoils of War

     She felt him walk into the tent before she heard him. He stumbled in, drunk on merriment and wine, bringing a warm breeze from the coast with him. She could smell him from the door. He smelled of sunlight and earth, open fire and the metallic sweat of the day. It was not an unpleasant smell. He smelled like a man, a warrior.  She could hear him shuffling around, picking up various items and setting them back down. He said not a word and she didn't either. She just laid on her pallet in the corner, eyes closed as if asleep. She did not want him to know that she laid awake waiting for his return. She anticipated seeing him all evening while he broke words with others. She had no place among his people and would not interrupt his interactions with them. She waited patiently in the tent they shared. He kept her there for her own protection. His kin were brutal and overreaching. To them, she was a spoil of war. To him, she was his conscience. They spoke frankly when in this tent, speaking of hard truths and decisions. She led him to follow his heart regardless of how difficult it was to do so. Their relationship was strained by tension. She knew he wanted her, and she him. He kept his distance as best as he could for fear of destroying her innocence.
     Normally he slept near the entrance of their tent to keep her safe from those that would snatch her away in the night. If it wasn't for his obligations to the clan, they would leave this coast and strike out alone. Just the two of them. She wanted that desperately. To be his, and he to be hers. She knew his path would not take them where she desired. Instead of dwelling on that which would never be, she kept busy with various tasks he set her to and spoke to few. Once done, she would come back to the tent, exhausted from work and heat, and wait on his return with food and drink. He promised that she would never want for anything, as he would keep her fed and cared for. At first meeting, he frightened her. He was imposing. Tall and handsome, yet fearsome in his rage. He fought with a purpose and a savagery unmatched by anyone she ever seen. He stood a god among his men... all men really. No one matched his mastery of warfare. He was a champion born and bred for battle. And he was her savior. He saved her from a life of slavery and hardship. He gave her freedom.
     She continued to lay quiet as he moved about, finally coming to her pallet. He knelt at her side and reached out a gauntlet clad hand to touch her. He began at her ankles, his fingers delicately dancing over her skin. He traced the line of her leg up and laid his hand softly on her hip. She opened her eyes to see him looking down at her with unbridled carnality burning in his clear azure eyes. The light of the fire outside their tent burnished his skin and long flaxen hair in a celestial blaze. He shone like an immaculate beacon in the darkness, lighting the way to her. She sat up facing him, gazing at his beauty, never taking her eyes away from his and took his large hand into both of hers and pressed it to her heart. She smiled warmly at him and finally broke her eyes from his. For a moment, she was afraid his lust may overtake sense in them both. She sought to steady herself before speaking with any veracity. When she looked back up at him, he reached forward and touched her cheek with his other hand, tenderly and lovingly stoking the petal soft skin. Finally he spoke, after what felt like an eternity.
     "I fear that I will depart this world without ever knowing your touch." And with that said, he took her face in both strong hands and kissed her thoroughly and deeply, his stubbled chin bristling against her skin. He tasted of wine and roasted meat. When at last he let let her go, she panted and touched her fingers to her tingling lips. With eyes full of longing, she looked up at him, cast in that golden light and reached for him again. She stopped herself just short of his arms. She was afraid to touch him, afraid the thin veil of restraint she had would be shattered the moment she touched his skin. Like she would be lit ablaze with passion. When she spoke, she did it slowly, deliberately, making him hear her words.
     "Do you speak truth or do you let wine speak for you?"
     "When have I not spoke truth to you?" She smiled.
     "You've always been truthful. Even when true words would do harm." He looked ashamed at this. Taking his hands away from her face, he averted his glance down to the grass beneath his knees.
     "I have never sought to harm you. I would see you safe from pain. I wish for nothing but your peace." Again, she smiled. This man, this fighter... pain was his purpose. To harm, to kill, to destroy. And yet, she believed him. He would never misuse her. She knew this. Hearing him say it warmed her heart. She nodded at him, in acceptance of his words, stood up, taking his hands in hers, and drew him up from his knees. Standing on tiptoes, she pressed her body against his, threw her arms around his neck, pulling his face down to hers. He closed his eyes and sighed, resting his forehead against hers, wrapping his arms around her waist.
     "You are my peace," she whispered. "You saved me from uncertain fate. If my embrace is payment for that, I gladly give it to you." He kissed her again and held her tight to his chest. His hands ran up her back to the tie that held her linen dress in place and released it in one swift movement. She untied the knot that held the short cloth to his waist and let it fall to the floor. They both stood naked, bronzed by fire light. He laid her down gently on the pallet, slowly lowering his body onto hers. He explored her body, touching, kissing, tasting every inch of her skin as he made his way down her torso. He looked up at her, resting his chin on her stomach and grinned at her in that devilish way.
     "You do not encourage me to continue by remaining silent," he said brashly. "Let's change that, shall we?" She eyed him curiously and he continued his downward descent. She opened her legs to him and he nibbled gently at her inner thighs. She giggled at the feeling and he took that as permission to continue. He lowered his head to her. His tongue was nimble, making broad strokes that caused her to tremble. He kept on with speed and skill and she sighed audibly, moving her hips to his rhythm. She felt a tightness deep inside her, as if she would explode if he continued. She tried to pull away from him in an attempt to lessen the feeling. He felt her struggle and wrapped one arm around her thigh, while the other reached up and gripped her breast. He continued with renewed fervor and she squirmed and panted. Finally able to break his hold, she sat up abruptly and gripped him by his hair and pulled him up to face her and kissed him deeply. She could taste herself on his lips, musky and feral, that ignited an inferno deep within. Reaching down, she took all of him in her hands and stroked gently. He inhaled sharply and pushed her back down to the pallet. He took her hands away and pinned them over her head with one hand, while the other guided himself into her. She gasped at the sudden intrusion. They began to move together in a steady cadence of mutual bliss. He looked deep in her eyes and she back at him as they writhed in tandem. He let go of her hands and she immediately dropped them to his hips in hopes of holding him within her forever. The tightness deep within her returned and she begged him not to stop. In response, he went faster and faster and faster until a wave of pleasure crashed over them and threatened to drown them both. She cried out and he collapsed onto her, chest heaving and breathing heavily. She wrapped her legs around him and held him there.
     "Do not move... I do not wish to be separate from you yet," she panted. He nodded, unable to form words and they lay fitted together like a puzzle. She felt complete and whole with him inside her and did not want that feeling to end. Is this what love is, she thought to herself. Feeling whole when coupled? They lay quietly, hearts hammering against the others ribs. She released him and he propped himself up on his elbows.
     "What spell you have cast upon me, bewitching woman? I fear you will never be rid of me." he said quietly. She laughed.
     "You speak as if I would want to."

Why I write

I write because I have too much imagination inside. To contain it would be like trying to fit the Atlantic ocean into a fish tank. Once those flood gates are open, there is no stopping it. I have always lived in my own world of ideals and fantasies that are so impractical in the real world. My stories begin as dreams usually. That is where I get my inspiration. Because in my dreams, there are no limitations, no rules. The people I meet in my dreams are not figments of my imagination. I didn't create them to deal with some weird, deep rooted childhood trauma. They are me. They are the aspects of me that I am, that I lost, that I wish I could be. They are fantasy made real by an overactive imagination. There's a saying that a writer doesn't have 1 life, they have many lives.And that is the closest to the truth than I could ever really express.

Some of you know, though most of you don't, I am writing a book. I've been working on it for a long time now and I still don't have more than maybe 3 pages typed. I don't type it up to start though. I write it all down, old school style. Seems impractical to the vast majority, but I feel that it's more personal this way. I know I will have to type it all up eventually, and that is okay. Because when I retype it all, I can reword things and update it all as I see fit.You know, rearranging words and phrases.

I plan of self publishing my book via Amazon, as an e-book. Maybe if enough people like it, it will be made into a movie or something like that horrendous Fifty Shades of Crap. (I know I shouldn't bash other writers, but damn that book is horrible. I read all of 5 pages of that drivel and had to put it down because it was just so bad. I'd give the writer more credit if she made up the characters herself, but she didn't. That whole crappy story began as Twilight fan fiction. And don't get me started on fan fiction.) I don't have any illusions about it though. I know that there are better writers than me whose stories go unnoticed or overlooked by the majority because they are not easily adapted. The same was told to George RR Martin and look at him! The man is a commercial success because of his imagination and his creations. I would love to have that kind of success. I know that isn't the reality of most writers but one could hope.

I don't write because I want to be rich and famous. I write because my imagination and internal world is too massive to contain. I write because I have a gift with words that many don't have. I write because I can.

Decadent Dionysus

After watching live performances of Led Zeppelin, I decided to write this piece. I find Robert Plant to be one of the most alluring men on stage. He exudes charm and sexuality on stage. Everything from his apperance to his body movements to his choice of clothing all plays into his persona. So after many nights of discussing 1971 Robert Plant with a now no longer friend, I finally found a way to work him into my writing. For your reading pleasure, I give you Decadent Dionysus.

Decadent Dionysus:
     Around a blazing flame, we danced. Our dance of liberation and madness born in the most primal places of our wandering souls. He stood a midst the saturnalia, rejoicing in the freedom he incited. His amber mane whipped about his immaculate face as he sang of love lost and oppulant lands. His lithe body cavorted amongst us as we swayed to the rhythm of his phantom melodies. He raised his arms skywards, begging for the heavens to break and release it's tears upon us. We frolicked as he commanded, without regard for pain or self. He took us to the brink of lunacy and we revelled in it's sublime simplicity. We gave ourselves over to him, relinquishing the control of our sanity for the freedom of his bliss. We danced without care, we loved without fear, and we indulged without limit. He carried us to ecstasy on the wings of sedition and we submitted willingly. We placed him above all in the pantheon of our passions. His beauty was second to none. Our exhalted love, our decadent Prince, coveted above all. Our Dionysus. We drank in his rapture and drunk on his divinity, we made love. Our bodies, an offering of entwining limbs and idolatry for him, our venerable consort. His emboldened azure eyes pierced the midnight veil of our essence, and we surrendered to his earthly appetites. Our precious conqueror, possessor of our singular vitality, Lord of our devotion. Our Golden God, like a candle lighting the dark path to mania, we succumbed to his debauchery.

Now, I wrote this from a literal stand point. To me, Robert Plant embodied all that Dionysus represented; Indulgence, love, and madness. So I imagined him as Dionysus and those who gave in, his priests and priestesses. But after I showed this to my husband, he asked if it was written from a fan's viewpoint in the crowd at a concert. I did not, but I can see how it can be viewed as such. It is both really. What do you see when you read it?