the secret lives of women
interiour creature
welcome to erotic soul, sanctuary of poetry, temple of longing, black velvet mystery, serpentine journey, big juicy permission slip to want what you want and be who you be.
who am i to decide what you need to hear and what you do not? this is given to me. it begins with me and it is beyond me.
often it starts with a thought - one i particularly want to chew on. then there are two options. either i contract around it, trying with all my might to write a message that sounds “good” or appropriate or i don’t know — like something some small scared part of me thinks you would like to hear, knowing full well that you wanting to hear it means you probably do not need to hear it because you already know.
the part of me who writes like this wants to cause no friction. a small child. three years old. she learned to mince words so young.
“oh sweet love,” i tell her, “you have more magic to pour than you know what to do with. do you know all those feelings you have — the invisible things you have always sensed, the things you are dying to say but are deathly afraid of, too — are so, so beautiful?“
she does know, but she is still afraid.
i assure her — which is to say, myself — now is the perfect place to let it cascade from my sweet wild lips, my cherry flavored liminal space. my old growth forest with moss a foot thick, moss you could lie on and be held by it forever and ever and never wake up until the prince comes. of course, you have changed, so he will be a king,
you hear their silences. don’t you?
the trees. the birds. the people. the beasts.
you hear more than anyone understands. someone must understand but dear dear girl because you keep your mouth shut, they will never know. they can never know. some of them must never know. some of them want to burn the witch. you know who they are — they do not bother you any longer. you know the ones. the fools who want attention, who will say any presumptuous thing and who have probably never fucked a woman while focusing on her experience. who have fucked women, focusing so hard to make themselves come that the miraculous vessel beneath them ceases to exist. fuck those boys. actually do not fuck those boys. ever. some people just do not want to know the depth of a woman or the depth of love or the serpentine nature in any capacity.
a Man wants to know how he can love you so hard, so deep, so gentle, so subtle and particular, you shed skin after skin after skin.
oh look, i have digressed. who? me, or you, the slithering tongue whispering me sweet nothings?
wise, woman.
someone once wrote to you, “faye, this is one of your best digressions yet,” so perhaps the digression is the source of vitality.
listen, i am rubbish at reorganizing thoughts. anyhow, it matters not. i do not need to construct this in some manner of logic, when i know you will wander through the text collecting the morsels that jump forth to you. better to keep you guessing. that is just my opinion but since it is my… i do not like the word blog anymore so, since it is my forest of mysteries, i pray to make no sense and i pray that the nonsense fills your body with a yearning you cannot name. i pray and i pray and i pray. do you?
what do you pray for?
^^^ that was the second option.
to conclude, i am going to give you some advice.
stop praying for things.
start praying by feeling. not searching for any particular feeling but feeling what is. do you remember how to feel beneath the surface of your skin?
this is the message each and every time my tongue unties and my spine uncoils to come wrap you in honey and harmony. you, sweet you. i do not know who you are, yet i love you. come forth.
there is a deep black velvet place and i want to show you inside.
xx
faye
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