what i was afraid to tell you

did you already know?

she teaches things you’d never learn in school. things about desire. about power. things you can only learn in solitude, feeling how she wraps herself around your hips and down your thighs. how you breathe just right and she fills your body with the passion of centuries starving.

i wanted to tell you, but always stopped myself just at the edge. too many men have fucked me then fucked me over. or did i do that to myself? it’s not that i wanted anything from them, not really — back then, i had no appetite, but some part of me knew: the game is feed or die, and they were willing victims. i didn’t see any other way. 

after, i felt empty. void. untethered. the disconnection tortured me; i could’ve drained them of every last drop of energy, and still felt nothing. not a hint of hunger in my body. i’m not sure i even had a pulse. 

but with you? 

i felt it immediately. that night in the secret room with the big mirror and the deep orange red walls and i danced and danced and draped myself over every piece of furniture and stretched my body open and you told me, “i guarantee all shapes would like to feel you, too, and i felt it. some force words can only point to. some feeling in the darkness enticing my madness. 

her sound escaping my mouth, opening my throat, rolling my eyes wild. this fluid force possessing my body. some ancient thing i’ve always felt but never known, not really, not the way i’ve longed to. i thought it was myself i wanted to know. but i have nothing to do with it. that’s what I was afraid to tell you; that you weren’t fucking me. that as soon as we kissed, i changed, i became a million different women; as many characters as nerve endings. more than that. i was afraid to tell you, but last time i sat atop you, my head thrown back and roaring, you saw it — her — the ancient feeling. the hunger. 

hunger awakens. presence. moistened lips, bones of hips perfectly shaped for fingers’ grips, swollen breasts, lines between ribs converging on the belly of the beast, the body, leylines. her map of ecstasy expanding with each breath deep into the diaphragm, oxygen rolling from tongue to neck to spinal column, blood rushing to the space of openness, wanting a visitor, a tongue. two fingers, a secret language spoken only in strokes shared between us, glances sideways, glistening eyes, pressure, a violent heat, desperate to eat.

fuck you i love you tear me in two. don’t be so gentle now. can’t you see? open your eyes and look what you’ve made me. a mess. insatiable. properly improper. what did you call me? your glorious whore? a witch? a succubus? she nods in agreeance. you asked for this darkness. and don’t pretend for even a second you didn’t know exactly what you were dealing with. that fact that you didn’t tell me is another story you’ll pay for in endless ecstasy, you dark lord. what are you? ancient. benevolent. here. you are here.

once i ate but felt nothing. now i am never full and sated at least a thousand times a day. however many breaths i take, that is how many times i am sated. yet this longing, what a thing. filling is not the point of it but rather, it points to an opening. a space created. a cavernous offering that reaches out from that point in my chest - my xiphoid process, just at the base of my breasts, the indent begging to hold something. that space i always touch on you that you hate so much. well touch mine, then. it lights something. something that needs. 

wanting - i’m not so sure about it. once you said something about when a want becomes a need. i don’t remember what you said, just that it made me think of us fucking in the middle of a crowded shopping mall. lately i’ve been dreaming about dark clubs and short dresses and drinking the life straight from the air. i feel the way the darkness is illuminating, breath by breath. the way fantasy is realer than reality. the way the unseen is seen in everything. 

you feed me, i feed you. that’s how this works