FUTUREF2CK

In a sense I don’t belong – how can someone teeter tottering with asexuality say they belong at a sex party –

And yet, as I soaked in so many queers, lit up with being so iconically Themselves, my golden flesh popped to an illuminated chartreuse.

And yet, as I tongue wrestle with words, both bright and dim, with sucks and bites and laps,  I had a thought. An okay thought.

None of us belong. That’s the point. We are all subversions, with heart.

Duh.

My body, the day after, is stained with a mosaic-pallete: pink dashes, holes, and a purple jaw line, leaving me feeling like a scratched lightbulb.

And I’m content with taking a step closer to a body I can feel at home with.

An interrogation room with a dingle dangling scratched lightbulb, and a table of comforting, potluck foods –

And it has been two years, kinda, four years really –

But, anyway, my sleepy cunt is just my sleepy cunt. I’m also carved-in thighs, branded tummy, a neck long and marred – and a jawline, my very own jawline,  with a mythical signature of me

lighting up

Me

once again.

Some Sort of Alive

My step sways to the left as I edge Delancey Street. My palm raises to the sky as if I was begging for forgiveness but truly, “Taxi!” I mumble the address, withdrawn into myself, could have been anywhere. Jittery fingers are blasting poorly typed confessions into my smart phone.

Dark inner lips — high pitched squeals —  rounded eyes — arched back– rolling breasts

flashes into my mind.

I briskly hand the driver his 20%.

Lock the door. Brush my teeth. His breath is so melodic when he sleeps. Clothes fall off. My patch is unruly but I am too twisted to care.  I curve my spine around him and it begins in no time.

He. He becomes my meat. Vegetarian and famished. His body is plentiful. Gnawing on forearms, bulky.  Storing muscle for my teeth, sharp as winter, my growls are begs, I want to consume him.

My thighs sting from self-afflicted scratches. I learned earlier that evening that dancing is so much better when there is infliction. Guess I’m a sucker for over-stimulation. Heart racing in my mouthfuls. Okay. Yes. I am alive.

He’s two fingers in, thumb thumping clit, my wetness starts to pour. Okay. Yes. I am alive.

I grab onto his. Glad he doesn’t stop. Take more of him into my mouth, this time I don’t bite. Things are crecendoing but I still get bored. I jerk my head to his thigh and bite him again.

He pushes my head away and pins me down tight.

It is mostly good. We are mostly there. In that moment. Thoughtless but impulsive. The ends to each others urges. That’s what makes it good. That’s the “secret”– Cosmopolitan Feature Story:

• Be the only ones in the room.
• Don’t Filter.
• Primal but intimate.

In the shower the next morning we counted the tattoos my jaw gave him. “I haven’t been out that late in months– a year?” I say as I scrub him down. “I feet immortal and carnivorous when I’m breathing in Manhattan’s night. Can I drop the V word? I think that everything will click again when I get that freedom on the regular dosage. Some sort of alive.”

A Love Letter

Dear JR:

In the coming down of yoga, I realized some things. I have known my love for you is a cleaner and more enjoyable love for a while now. I have even mistaken my lack of fanaticism for loving you less. Preferably, but less. But in my meditations, when my heart expands to post-orgasm girth, without your touch or even presence, with gigantism inspired by thought alone, I realize that I love you more than I have loved anyone before. You are my favorite part of my life. You make me happiest. You make me most inspired. You ground humanity into me and elevate me to idealism — you allow me to feel infinite, to feel galactic, like an asteroid floating in the outer space of the human experience and human possibilities. You are my everything — and I don’t mean that in the spineless way I have used the phrase in the past. You don’t define my present or future– only I define those things. You know this, but I don’t even see the future, though when I almost pulled the trigger on us recently, I realized that my relationship with you spreads further forward then I can expect, and those realizations surprised me. Because, I see yesterday, rolling in Washington Sq. Park’s grass, saxophone oozing the blues in the background, and your other partner laughing with us– our bliss, our exchange of honesty. I see today, though it was digitally contained, there was still the sending of love notes, anxiety notes, motivational notes, phallic jokes, and geeky banter. I see a language not based on traditional dialect but reinvented in my tongue and in yours. Our spit and molars roll around the vowels, and then we whisper devious promises. We blush but we are in love. I think it is pure. Each time I confess love with someone new, the word reinvents itself. And this time the poems in my ear are lullabies. And I curl into your chest, your pet, your mouse, I squeak into your collarbone, trace it with my meek tongue that can never flirt with you with the rigor of my pen, I look into your icy eyes, and I know that in that cliché hearts-beating-out-the-same-Beatles-song way, that really should make me throw up– but I know, that this moment in my life is beautiful, because I’m sharing it with you. You are sharing it with me.

And that’s why yoga is a really weird experience for me.

Grand Canyon Writing

I am on the edge of the burnt umber succubus. My eyes are outlining her curves,speckled with evergreen life, and I feel waves of wonder ripple through my body, like pebbles in a pond. I want a Moment. So I reach. (My shirt sleeves crumble up, exposing the pale-olive flesh that I’m stitched with.)

And grab her by her undefined natural phenomena and bring her down to my smirking face. And… INHALE! DIGEST! CONSUME! WONDER! TWITCH AND SQUIRM! CONQUER AND FLINCH!

Boom!

My stomach, the enlightened nervous system, now owns her!

Mine. My snapshots. My narrative. My connection. My extension. My panorama consciousness.

Me. I CREATED IT. This entire world belongs to me. I created everything I trip and fall on; I created everything I worship and choke on.

God is a:

• 5′ 8″
• 115 lbs
• 22 year old
• olive toned
• messy dark-brown hair
• daydreaming
• stuttering
• emotional
• passionate, passionate

• GIRL

I become your God when you introduce yourself to me. It is that point where your worth and identity loosens into a vibrating line between my brown eyes and your own. And instantly, before our soft-spoken greetings are complete, I start the process of re-coloring you with my own biases and hyperbole; re-inventing you into my own creation. Re-inventing our setting into my own playground. Re-innovating our human dilemma into a platform for my own insecurities.

To survive my damnation all you need to do is avoid me by all costs. I’m a great big disease, if you come to close,  you’ll catch my damnation. If you come to close then I’ll bring you to the fiery pit with me.

Listen, God is a mortal. Listen, God is a sinner. Listen, God will burn, but with sticky fingers reaching out, gripping tightly on every rough-tongued sucker who was cruel to Her.

Depressive Blogging

My scalp itches, with the two-centimeter grease, clumping my hair in awkward positions. I try to adjust it, but if I do not bathe, it will not align itself correctly. As my analytical eyes examine the brutalities of my face, I keep on getting distracted by the grease on my scalp, it becomes an elaborate metaphor of a quick-fix flaw. When I hop in the shower, my face will not gain symmetry, my skin will not become vibrant, my mouth wont curl into a welcoming smile, the bags under my eyes won’t disintegrate, but my hair will become clean.

It’s so simple, yet I turn around, away from the shower, and exit my bathroom. I fall on my floor, intentionally, and I welcome the muck, because, I need to recognize my internal grime. My eyes get heavy, I have no will to keep them alert, I have no will to experience today, I lose sight of reality, and the only consciousness I have left laughs and tells me, I never had reality in the first place.

If no one thinks of you—

If you are not alive or present in anyone’s life

If no one loves you

Are you even real?

That’s the riddle. As soon as I wake up from my nap, before I can recall the phallus symbols, or recognize my body’s lethargy, or even remember that I’m still alive, I start questioning the riddle. I’m fanatical about this puzzle, because I know the answer, I know how easy it is to be absolute, but I don’t want to deal with the inevitable truth.

I’m still curled on the floor. I’m next to a pile of paperbacks. They were all impulse buys and I haven’t even read one of them. I think about donating them to the library, as there is no space in my life for the written word.

In truth I have a lot of space, but I feel full. I feel pregnant with a rapidly expanding child, who’s ripping open my ovary, and entering places it doesn’t belong. And I curl over in pain, panting like a dog. I need more space, get out of me, I scream at it. But it seems comedic when I thrash my head away from my own gut to take in my setting and am reminded that the walls around me are moving in, the ceiling is falling down, and I just wait to be smushed, wondering if the force of the attack will rip me into molecular pieces. And, will this molecular versions of me finally allow me to feel like I have all the space I ever needed? Or do I gain molecular vision with my molecular size; will all the other molecules be too much for me?

This fantasy gives me an attack. My heart whacks my chest, as if I really did have that child inside of me, as if it was playing catch with my heart, and kicking my ribs. I feel nausea and curl up more and as I wipe the sweat from my eyebrows I can feel the Lord take my throat into his fists.

But as it subsides I do not think about space. I think about fullness. I think about the riddle, and how I want to exist, I want to be alive. I want to be a human being. And in order to do that, I need to take steps to the shower, even if all I can handle are small steps, even if the steps feel like Wonderland is inside of me, and Alice won’t stop drinking the potion.

And as I get into the shower, and the steam goes up my nose, and my hair gets heavy with dampness, and I feel the warm water, my only loving embrace, I think about the riddle.

And I think about time.

And I go back to my reflection and I even crack a smile, thinking: progress.

Sub

I can tell that he is trying to hide something but it isn’t going to work. He can’t. The truth comes out in his addiction and I’m a part of them.

For instance; when he orgasms his complexion gradients into a panicked eggshell merged with rageful scarlet. I watch the anxious composure of  my lover, companion, guardian melt away and turn into swelling vice.

And when he is trying to hold back he claws into my back. I feel the stingy warm sensation, my masochist is fucked just right, but my intellect doesn’t skip this beat.

And my ear is placed right in between his lip and throat where I observe his exclamations as they slither up his diaphragm and easily escape out of his expanded mouth into my ear. I hear a crescendo of the typical grunts and moans but also that drown out booming growl.

Sublimity. Sublime. Sub-lime. The word is thick like molasses. When we kiss I’m doing something. My tongue rolls around it, my spit absorbs it, and my mouth tries to transfer to him the intrigue, beauty, and hope that swirls and swells, like the famous tornado filled with wreckage, fairy tales, and memories, inside of me.

I wonder if he really thought that I am not aware of this; my foolishness only stretches so far. Not only am I aware but I’m obsessed. Ritually I whisper, who is he, when his cock fills my mouth, my lip glosses in cum, and my senses are enlightened with a moment of honesty.

Grrrr(l)

Right now there are brown dashes on the inside of my shoulder. A pink and violet femme bruise pulsating out of my white tit. The opposing tit being decorated with pale pink fading scars.   Brown and pink angular lines down my hipbones giving perfect direction to the thin landing strip my cunt is currently wearing. On the edges of both my thighs are tan bruises and then a matching one on the left cheek of my ass and yet I’m still tempted to take that ass and bend it over someone’s lap —I say it so vaguely but you know I have an idea on who– while my face bends down my mouth gapes open and that ass gets rouge, salmon, lavender, grape, magenta, onyx, tan, lime, maroon, pink, neon striped, hand-printed, scarlet blood drying into crusty brown beatings. And with them come squeaks, whimpers, moans, screams, maybe, but then growls.

Did any fingerprints make indents in my ass? Can my ass be the next set of CSI? Is my ass colorful enough to be included in your impressionist art gallery?

Does my ass challenge you? Scare you?

Do my jutting collarbones seem like a juxtaposition? Did you expect different result when you saw how close my spine is to my skin? Did you not think something would be inside these b-cup tits and timid lips?

I can take it. You don’t know what I can take. The anger is recognizable and lashing out. I have a white and pink fleshy map to prove that I’m not “chill”. That I hear what you said about me, right outside of my door, that I feel it when you take your crunchy echo-y stomps into every corner of my space, that I know that every time you told me ‘don’t worry, I love you’ you were giving me (toxic for some, but not me) lies– I’m quiet not imaginary.

You may never hear my thoughts but you will hear my screams and growls.