|
| he chewed on his gum incessantly. it lasted since the night before. i
kissed him greedily to reach the flavour of his mouth, but i'd only
achieved the bland flavour of the bored gum. this only made me go
deeper into the unknown crimson depths of his disclosed desire to be
taken in by the flaming tongue of mine. and the less i could taste his
mouth, the harder i tried.
i opened my eyes to see the truth. his eyes were rolled back to reveal
the white of his eyes and the utter elation he was experiencing. i
could still hear the bass banging in his head at 100 bpm. i pushed his
shirt off his torso and he pulled it off his head, and i kissed his
smooth moist skin. he lifted my head to kiss me, and hold my bare torso
close to his.
i was excited. he is my first pair of versace pants. my first pop of
ecstacy. my first fuck. my first kiss. my first crush. my first
birthday present. and i unwrapped him sans hesitation or permission or
directions.
i'd been waiting for this. i'd been waiting for him to do this to me.
and he did. in the rising mid-morning sun. on my mother's bed. we'd
been up and out since the night before. i stayed up just for this
moment. i felt like i was having my virginity stolen off me again. and
i would let him steal my virginity anytime he asked.
he is god to me, and i called out for him innumerable times during the whole session of eating me up whole.
and after he'd played god for three divine hours, he was gone. leaving
only his cigarette lighter and the taste of stale chewing gum in my
mouth. and the unspoken promise to never call me again. or even
acknowledge me. or even acknowledge my existence.
so i decide to take leave for a temporary period, until i will be able to face the dancefloor again.
| | |
| i've been done up beautifully for everyone, but not one shifts their view towards me.
why do i complain when i am wanted? i complain for i am not needed.
why do i complain when i am held? i complain for i am not loved.
i miss you .. and i hope you miss me too.
we can work this out.
but i know it won't.
| | |
| scribbled on a notepad
engraved into my neck
prophet had said to me:
just let flowers bloom,
even if it may hurt worse than bad
and i folded my self
and hid my docile antelope
but the music aroused
to wake me from passiveness
and to kick the shins and break ...
to break the organs
and to seek victory
i am winning in not mine
not my shoes
not my soul
not my self
i am playing that role written
by me
| | |
| he pacifies the anger in me, but arouses the insanity. he has brought
out that feeling i had left untouched since the last time my heart was
broken. the feeling that has been offered innumerable times, but left
to another who never called for it.
is it being called this time? this feeling of unknown depths? is he calling for it?
| | |
| i could smell him on my skin, and he would still arouse me even if he
were nowhere near me. i peeled the thin red paint off the fine china to
reveal pure whiteness so bright to the eyes, yet ultimately delicate to
the most careful fingers.
and the china in my hands were the most fragile object i had ever held,
even without the red paint. though i was not scared to hold what i had
in my hands, as it is what i have dearest to me, i still mildly fear
that i may drop it and it should break to pieces.
but let not the salted mouth speak true.
and i caress him. and hold him. and i shall not let him go to anywhere.,
| | |
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