disease.
at two in the morning disgust at my foolishness is just beyond the reach of my consciousness, and reason never dares approach my threshold; all i know here and now in this sleepy betweentime is this song, and this aching, beautiful fury, and the need that didn't die: the need to feel your grip imprisoning me just enough so that any struggle i make is futile (but of course it would be half-assed to begin with), your mouth on my neck, my jaw, my shoulder, near my ear, a flash of teeth breaking tender skin and hissed curses unimpeded by the lip clamped tight between my teeth in vain efforts to keep some semblance of control of myself.
my chest aches and part of me wishes i could pause long enough to feel guilty, to punish myself for loving the memory of your voice-- to wish that the sharp taste of the kiss you never gave me would cut my tongue to ribbons so that i might never again risk revealing how my heart squeezes and my stomach plummets and my breath grows light and hisses through my lips when i think of what could have happened.
i may be quite naive, and so foolish as to put you beyond even laughing at my idiocies, but i am a half-wild wanton and want you it is possible I always will.
you are the blaze of sweet fury in my chest and the mouth imprinted in faint bruises on my neck in dreams; you are the minute spaces of time between each haggard breath and the bright fever beneath my skin in the dark, you are every tear between the fibers of the pillowcases and the carpet and the creamy suede on the sofa in my mother's apartment where i lost myself in my longing for you.
i pray with all my strength that someone will come to me who makes me feel those things so much more that you become obliterated from my mind. i pray that your fire will someday die down in my chest, that i will cease to flare so white-hot in your presence, that i will someday learn to school my features into some semblance of sophistication like you can and never again let you hear how you change the notes of every song i sing when your memory colors the canvas of my mind.
i am desperate to know that there is someone more than you, someone who can make me even angrier, even more beautifully infuriated than you; someone who can bring me not just to my knees like you but so far to the ground that carpet fibers tangle between my teeth. i want to be brought down hard by my need and feel fingers lift my chin until i am forced to look into the eyes of the only person who knows just how to control me best.
i live every single day of my life in subtle terror that he is you, and no one else.
my chest aches and part of me wishes i could pause long enough to feel guilty, to punish myself for loving the memory of your voice-- to wish that the sharp taste of the kiss you never gave me would cut my tongue to ribbons so that i might never again risk revealing how my heart squeezes and my stomach plummets and my breath grows light and hisses through my lips when i think of what could have happened.
i may be quite naive, and so foolish as to put you beyond even laughing at my idiocies, but i am a half-wild wanton and want you it is possible I always will.
you are the blaze of sweet fury in my chest and the mouth imprinted in faint bruises on my neck in dreams; you are the minute spaces of time between each haggard breath and the bright fever beneath my skin in the dark, you are every tear between the fibers of the pillowcases and the carpet and the creamy suede on the sofa in my mother's apartment where i lost myself in my longing for you.
i pray with all my strength that someone will come to me who makes me feel those things so much more that you become obliterated from my mind. i pray that your fire will someday die down in my chest, that i will cease to flare so white-hot in your presence, that i will someday learn to school my features into some semblance of sophistication like you can and never again let you hear how you change the notes of every song i sing when your memory colors the canvas of my mind.
i am desperate to know that there is someone more than you, someone who can make me even angrier, even more beautifully infuriated than you; someone who can bring me not just to my knees like you but so far to the ground that carpet fibers tangle between my teeth. i want to be brought down hard by my need and feel fingers lift my chin until i am forced to look into the eyes of the only person who knows just how to control me best.
i live every single day of my life in subtle terror that he is you, and no one else.