Sea-sick but motionless

wave of degradation - you pour over me while I stare at the sun - blinding me I want to be blind. Why? I want to taste every last comb of your honey and I hate that - I hate you for making me want you. Where was your permission or your right? We are not what we have, but what we crave. You make me fake like plastic dolls that I want to mutilate. You make me feel so safe it seems unjust. How dare one person feel so fucking good when there is a world of hurt? Who am I to smile so large and wide that my cheek bones practically splinter and crack like fragile fire wood that we throw in a fire in mid-July while we take back a bottle of wine. Who am I?

What the fuck am I so afraid of? What could hurt worse than knowing that at the end I didn’t even gather up enough strength to try? Why do we fall so fast and so hard like a psychotic spiral that spins ever out-there - out of control. Why do I want you here with me now when I barely know your face.

Yet I see it when I close my eyes.

I make myself want to vomit. Pining over the next move you make - it makes me fall down and spin like an out of control ferris wheel - it is a long way down and you have no right. Smearing me around your skin like the sweat on your brow. You have no right staring at me like the moon kissed my forehead and there is some kind of hypnotizing shine. You have no right.

But I want more.

You feel like a tattoo - you burn when you bite my lip but I keep craving more - what can I say? I like the way you dig your nails up my legs. What does it all mean?

Sleeping alone in an unknown city - it feels right here, but I keep encouraging this suffocating panic. Where and when and how did I fall so far from myself? Or did I fall into myself so deeply that I forgot how to let someone fall with me? Really, I am sick right now - my stomach feels like a tunnel that leads to nowhere and it is conjuring up bile while I sit here and think of your face. This isn’t what I wanted, but I know it is what I needed.

I need to face this overwhelming fear of intimacy. I need to face that little fucker that screams “you are the one worth leaving” in my ear - little bastard burns me every time I pick up the phone. Bottom line is that I hate the way I want to memorize every last imperfection on your naked body. Fuck.

Does it all come down to that?

You make me fucking crazy, and I am getting addicted to the way that you look at me. I know you want to trace my face

“making a masterpiece”

Isn’t that what you said?

I want to be your wildflower - so tall and proud and bright - uncontrolled like a field we dance in when our bodies crave the movement of freedom. Are we free or prisoners of our own fears? Desires? Lusts?

Did we seal our fate so early? Pre-ordained.