The wanting comes in waves
I could wash away deserts with all the tears I've cried lately. The funny thing is I think it's ok to feel this way. Feeling out my place in the world, discovering all those repressed emotions that I had been suffocating with smoke and denial for so long. I just can't help but feel like I'm tainting the thing I love. Ruining it with my tears and over flowing emotions, wrenching the heart of my love each time I let it pour out. But at the same time my own heart is constantly wrenched, pangs of lingering past jealous tendencies. The stab and twist sensation of hearing the sentimental nickname "em" come out of his mouth, even though it's expressing some unpleasant recollection. I hate these feelings. I hate myself for feeling them, not being able to shrug it off when he mentions the time he bought a red corset (he doesn't specify for whom but it's obvious) and how now I could never even think of wearing one. The twinge of hate I feel when she calls him her literary love, when he suggests the he take her up to flattop and violates our special place. Sexual frustration. Working the kinks out (sometimes literally but never in the way I'd really like) but never reaching full disclosure, the moment of complete abandonment. My awesome lack of orgasm that seems to somehow deeply matter to the men in my life yet often the things that might get me there are still ignored. So I shove that in some deep corner and fuck harder, angrier. Not feeling anything for those moments instead of feeling love.
But, those moments alone...the ones without the interruption of horror stories from the past or the mention of anyone else (especially the growing number of females in his life) other then him and I. Those quite moments of getting lost in space and time and nothing matters but the way it feels right then. I live for those, it makes it all somehow worth it. That's why I do this to myself again, fragile emotions, fresh wounds and all. It's not quite salt, this experiment/adventure we've embarked on, but sometimes the sensation is close to it.
But, those moments alone...the ones without the interruption of horror stories from the past or the mention of anyone else (especially the growing number of females in his life) other then him and I. Those quite moments of getting lost in space and time and nothing matters but the way it feels right then. I live for those, it makes it all somehow worth it. That's why I do this to myself again, fragile emotions, fresh wounds and all. It's not quite salt, this experiment/adventure we've embarked on, but sometimes the sensation is close to it.