(no subject)
I dreamt of this boy, who I can only vaguely define as a 'boy' because his age was elusive and began to change when he looked at me. He was holding my hand in one of his, while he drew on it with his other hand. I didn't want him to let go, when I woke up; and so I couldn't wake up, I refused to. I kept closing my eyes so he could hold my hand a little longer.
I couldn't imagine anyone touching me without feeling painfully let down and a little disgusted. Even the rush of excitement I used to get from a stranger's hands on my inchoate body has become a disproved theory. I don't want a stranger's hands. I want the right hands. I want to hold your hand, but I couldn't possibly even if I was allowed. This is no longer unlike me. It is precisely me.
It's overwhelming to imagine an uninvited tongue in my mouth because it's thrilling to think shivers when a body accidentally bumps into mine, and slowly drifts off into a crowded world where I can never discern his back from hundreds of other backs. My heart is faint knowing I might be alone, at any point in time, with someone who will want me to know who I am enough to explain why I don't want what he wants.
The kind of person who'd win my palate would win it in a second, I would mistakenly confess. I'd be painting the sunrise in my eyes, over and over. I'd be wording the moment in sand with broken shells. I'd be so taken by him that kisses and laughter would be lesser concepts in his mind. Those would be lines to cross out of inspiration and into the unknown, and he'd understand the risk.
I couldn't imagine anyone touching me without feeling painfully let down and a little disgusted. Even the rush of excitement I used to get from a stranger's hands on my inchoate body has become a disproved theory. I don't want a stranger's hands. I want the right hands. I want to hold your hand, but I couldn't possibly even if I was allowed. This is no longer unlike me. It is precisely me.
It's overwhelming to imagine an uninvited tongue in my mouth because it's thrilling to think shivers when a body accidentally bumps into mine, and slowly drifts off into a crowded world where I can never discern his back from hundreds of other backs. My heart is faint knowing I might be alone, at any point in time, with someone who will want me to know who I am enough to explain why I don't want what he wants.
The kind of person who'd win my palate would win it in a second, I would mistakenly confess. I'd be painting the sunrise in my eyes, over and over. I'd be wording the moment in sand with broken shells. I'd be so taken by him that kisses and laughter would be lesser concepts in his mind. Those would be lines to cross out of inspiration and into the unknown, and he'd understand the risk.