Touch me.

I never knew what to do after stepping into their houses. They tell me, “Sit, make yourself at home.” But how can I? A stranger intruding on the intimate parts of a life. I can’t sit. I don’t know which spot I should leave my bag. Every inch doesnt belong to me. How can I stain the bits of their everyday? They’re letting me walk into their lives when really, I’ve walked into many. I’ve seen many pictures on walls where I don’t belong.

I let them have their ways with me.

I leave. Their neighbours know. I see it as they watch me leave from their own gates.

I come home smelling of someone else’s soap; their sex still on the tip of my nose where I had pushed my face between someone else’s thighs. I shower twice. Before the clothes come on, I get to look at my body and it is no longer mine. It’s Sara’s, Ann’s, Jo’s, Minn’s, Mel’s, Joan’s. And I haven’t done it for awhile but I think I’ve lost a lot of me whilst finding who I was.

Then you come along and you gave me something I didnt know I needed. You, disguised amongst one of the names. Your husband gave it away to a waiter for our reservations. You took your time. It was not about what we had planned to do. Miss Psychologist, no. It was about the moment.

You drove me to your place. I didn’t know where to sit or leave my bag but you took it from me and placed it on the table. You gave me a house tour; you were letting me walk into your life. But you were walking into mine as well.

I don’t remember the entire night’s sexual activity. But you kissed me different. It was just right. Your fingers were slowly leaving trails on my body. You had me laid down, cradling my head in your lap, caressing the face where I was only familiar with the scars. You kissed my forehead and this tiny spot next to my lips. You told me things I needed to hear. Things I needed to feel. You took your time with me. It was not sex. I had never felt so safe.

Yes, I remember how you felt on top of me. You knew what I liked, you had me tied. You watched intently as I shuddered against your touch. But at no point did you use me. You untied me and started kissing my wrists. You were giving back parts of me that I didnt think I’d have returned. The ropes had eaten into my skin and you rubbed and kissed them slowly. You held me together. You didnt tell me how beautiful I was like the rest of them. You told me I was soft. And brave. And you were afraid you’d hurt me. Your husband had suggested something. You told him you wouldnt. You told him I was yours.

You drove me home and there wasnt a scent of sex on the tip of my nose. I showered once. I had told you to drive safe. I looked in the mirror and trailed the places you’ve touched. You were so tender. How is it that someone can  leave such tenderness on places underserving?

You didn’t drive safe. You walked in and out. You gave back parts of me. And took everything.


I was stuck between submitting about my past or my present. So here is my past. It’s a little different in writing style because it was a difficult memory to go through again. But yes. I needed to get this out of my system

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We could be not-strangers

we are two strangers who have yet known
the luxuries of a beating rhythm,
or the sound vibrations
from the corners of my lips to the edges of your skin.
I would ask you to trust me
with your heart and every crevice of your body;
you’ll hold the needles and inject me with the ugliest parts of you –
I’ll take even them.
there will be two separate bodies and one grand promise
that every inch would be worshipped.
We’ll just be two strangers mapping out the constellations
hidden in the light between our eyes.
and I ask you to trust me
because we might not know of the endless possibilities
but with you, I trust we’ll be fine.


For ‘trust’.

You’ll leave too.

“Why do you have your walls up?”

“Because.
The walls…

they help, I think.”

They keep people out. You come and go as you want — no obligations, no consequences. Just distance. No one gets hurt like this. Everyone leaves.

“But do you believe in it?”

Mostly.

Sometimes, you meet someone.

And for some reason you want them to stay.

 

 

 

They won’t stay.


“I think I want it to stay” – City of Stars

 

 

‘Okay’

“Okay.”

“What is?”

“Excuse me?”

“You keep saying that, but really, what is it that’s so okay?”

I used to know. Nowadays, I’m not so sure.

I’ve always had a problem with feelings. It’s not that I don’t feel, or that I don’t know what I feel — I do know, I do. But sometimes I think I know it too well that I just don’t allow them to surface because why should they? Why should they affect other people. Nothing good would ever come out of it now, would it?

I can’t see you today
Okay.

I think I’m in love with someone else
Okay.

Take care
Okay.

Love yourself
Okay.

Are you okay?
I’m okay. I will be.

“I don’t know. It’s an acknowledgement, Isnt it? To you, to me.”

Especially me. Especially me.  Maybe by saying ‘okay’, I get to distance myself from any possible disappointment – self preservation of the future self (it’s stupid). It’s stupid. Nothing good comes out from this. Nothing has. Maybe when I say ‘okay’, I’m really just telling myself that I should be.

I cant see you today
But I was really looking forward to see you.

I think I’m in love with someone else
I know. I’m sorry I wasn’t enough.

Take care
People only say that; I’ll pretend you mean it.

Love yourself
How?

Are you okay?
I’m happy, I’m afraid it’ll all go away.

Are you okay?
No.

Are you okay?
I’ve learnt that, it doesn’t matter.

“An acknowledgement of what?”

“Of all the things I don’t say.”

some days

Some days you just need to shut yourself up. You shut yourself up because you care too much – about everything and everyone and you know that when that happens, you lose so much of yourself.

So much, you want to hit yourself with a metal chair over and over and over and watch yourself deform into a gross set of skin and bones.

Some days you need to stop feeling because every day is both a reduction and an overcompensation. For some possibly self-obsessed reason, people always seem to hurt you even when they’re not.

Some days.

Some days you hope too and it destroys you. 

 

Our Story

There we were. Round table, three chairs. Every month we’d be there – the same lonely café. I didn’t like the place for obvious reasons; this was after all, your neighborhood. But Ann liked the concept. Loose tea leaves, coffee with toasted marshmallows, natural sunlight through glass walls. Plus, there was a pleasantly great lack of people. It was a good place to write. It was a good place to think.

Continue reading “Our Story”

Sweet scandal

“How could you do it?”

Do you really think I wanted to? Sleep with a woman I didn’t know, tend to their physical and emotional needs, detach my self? I have good reasons for the drama I choose – reasons you will never know of nor understand.

You see, there is no such thing as detaching the self.

You close your eyes and kiss someone. You don’t think about the someone, you think about how your lips feel against another, you think about the softness that resonates with your inner want. Your fingers will stroke their skin and it isn’t their skin or their reaction that strikes you, but how there is another body waiting for your touch. Only your touch. And halfway through God knows, you’ll be staring at the hotel ceiling trying to figure out if this is what you enjoy.

And you take parts of them. The whispers that escape them, the smell of their perfume, the way their body arches. Even the way they sit and take their coffee. They become a part of your memory. You carry them in every breath and in every bed you hop into. Your last thoughts will always be how they’ve caressed your face and pulled you closer.

You see, there will always be the self. The other people. The memory.

And no matter how much you tell yourself, it’ll hurt.


Ha. ha. ha.. clearly I’m not cut out for a certain kind of writing