Slave

I read your words like a book composed of puzzles. Trying to solve them, I add pieces of myself to make it all complete. But something is always missing. The drawl of your speech on a lazy night. The stutter when excitement strikes. The husky sound when candles are lit. Always a different piece, always a different night.

Sunsets and daybreaks, I'm awake. Out of my window, I stare. Nothing to find there, except for the uncertainty of my morning coffee and the ancient dance of sun rays. Inspiration is lurking in the shadows. I don't try to get it. I just let it float there in mid-air, stealing my sentences. Warmly breathing on my window. I like doing that. Always an odd satisfaction to know that your breath makes somewhat of a difference somewhere. My finger draws circles and rectangles. Sometimes, wild streaks. Like Turkish coffee future readings, I read our failure. The little drops of condensation. No, my coffee is instant; just like how you came in. But I can't wash your traces off my life as quickly as I drink my coffee. Resistance. Dull images. Invisible glass pieces on my knuckles. Wishing. Letting go. Maybe not. You see, it takes a lot of work.

Without a sound, I imagine. I recall. The last night we spend together, or maybe the first. All the same. Against each other, grunting, squeezed facial expressions. I trace those two lines on the side and one dark line in the middle. What they lead to is something I desire but not the only thing I want. I want to open up and swallow you as a whole: your body and soul. I need all you can offer and I can give you all I've got. I despise the bed sheets for soaking up your sweat; I need that too! Driven in. Driven out. Roll over. Under. The holy battle of the night. You against your wrath. Me against my urges. Your strength against my needs. With each blow I get, a jolt of satisfaction shoots right through me. I'm reveling in your brutal lust. Oh how immoral we are. Immoral and immortal. I love it. I hate it. I need it. Another punch in the face and I'm screaming your name. The cycle goes on.

A long haul, I'm still awake in your bed and I couldn't even see the sunset. Reminds me of the lack of meaning in your kiss.  Indeed, there is the tongue, the biting and the ravaging force of your passion. I want it but it is never enough. The random beauty of tiny pecks shrivels as we go about our business yet another day. Yet another night. All the time. I wonder, do you ever truly see anything besides this body? No, I suppose you don't. I know my place; it's right under your invitingly well-built body. You rarely let me be a Goddess and even when I am one, you are the God. Still, it's good to pretend every once in a while to be the one that matters for a moment. Faking authority. Posing to get your attention. A fucking masquerade, how delightful.

I watch as you roll over to pick up a cigarette and light it. The little gray cloud fighting against my inspiration. I spot the pieces of our puzzle on the ground but I'm too taken with your exhausted breathing. Chest heaving, arms tired, eyelids half-closed. As much as I would like to tell you how I feel just right now, I bite my tongue in fear of hurting or offending you. Moment lingers on. The blood paints the night red. Silver moonlight and red nights. The little bubble of frustration continues to grow as I let my hands wander on your back. False hopes for communication when words are reluctant to come out. A small grin is all I need to know it's much more than what it seems. It's yet to come. Fighting an inner war; things I want to say vs. things I am allowed to say. More blood.  More redness. But your eyes don't see it. They never have and I doubt they will. Not anytime soon anyway. Even as I tell our story to the scary world out there, I am hesitant to reveal. I am so terrified to shut you out and scream. Somehow, it feels like you should be in control, not me. Pathetic, maybe. I seem to have internalized your existence yet I can not accept the simplicity of submission. I need a reason; there should be something much more powerful behind all these things you do. You won't give it to me, I can't figure it out by myself. Yet, I still continue rubbing your back. Feel that burning on your skin where I lay my hand? That's the taste of conflict.

You know me; I like to juxtapose things and I love a goddamn good vocabulary. But whenever I'm standing right outside your door, with the rain pounding down, I can not compare anything. I'm speechless. I know if I could speak, I could compare you and me. However, my voice seems to be afraid of your closed curtains. It's not the end of the show, it's just the interlude. Soon, just as when the sun comes back to the stage, you'll open them wide. Why do you hate the rain so much? You never cry so it can't be how rain resembles tears – that's a metaphor I hate by the way and I've used it. Cigarettes on your driveway. I smoke while waiting for you to feel my presence and peek through the curtains. I am the sun, I am the rain, I am a Goddess. I'm anything as long as you let me. This game of power exertion. However, as sad as it sounds, my power doesn't extend beyond your mind. And I love using big words for small things that don't matter.  As long as I can dream, this game shall continue. The door opens. I sneak into your life once more and I'm using big words again.

#Leprous