Down In Me

I like being acutely aware of you, of your quiet shifting movements and the rhythm of your breath. I am usually quite fidgety, you see. Most of the time, I require my own personal space and no violations. But not with you. With you, my skin itself becomes desire. I don’t get enough of you and it’s not just a fresh thrill. It’s also a safe comfort, a knowing familiarity, a kissing touch of sense.

I pine to be on you, to straddle you and fit my curves carefully and seamlessly over yours. Feel your warmth, your aura commingled with mine. Press into you so close and breathe you in so deeply. I see it in my mind, I wait for it throughout the day, for the time when I can again nuzzle my face into your neck and sigh contentedly in your arms. In that space I forget everything, I forget who I am and what I’ve done, but mostly I forget to care where I’m going. I get lost and ever so slightly regress.

Because that’s how I feel, so tiny. Like a puckered rosebud that hasn’t bloomed. A shrinking daffodil or something nonsensical that nonetheless warrants nurture. I become a small child, a very young girl again. A tender, cuddly bundle in floppy-eared pajamas who just needs to be held and loved by you.

“You’re tired of me aren’t you?”

“What?”

“I can hear it in your voice. You are now bored. Of me.”

“What on earth…?”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to pretend to spare my feelings.”

“I’m not tired, bored or sparing. I do have very little idea what you’re on about, though.”

“I called you two hours ago and you didn’t pick up.”

“Um, I was busy.”

“Right.”

“No, really.”

“Fine.”

“No, really!”

“Never mind.”

“Look! I um, I’ve got a bit of a stomach thing, okay? I was on the toilet when you rang and have been there since.”

“Oh.”

I can’t sit fucking still in this shitsmelling cocksucking headfucking mindless heating hocking shit. How do you, how do you, how do you stand yourself muddled in mud, sickened with fear, heavy with stench, deadly with death. Why do you and why do you continue, how do you carry on carrying the heavy fuck load of youth of penance of blood tainted history gum on the sole of your shoe. You’re sticky, your sticky surface, your stinky covering, it sticks to my flesh. Get it off, get it off me, get off me, get off on me, get off. Take me into your arms between your thighs into your dreams into your mind. Don’t forget that we don’t owe I don’t owe they don’t owe me anything and still they sit, sitting still they wait, they wander, they wait and wait and wait for me to deliver when they know they sense they taste that I can’t fucking deliver. I am quickly turned, quickly shunned, quickly hated, quickened pace heartening hardening still ever faster ever deeper ever more sullied and wretched and fucked more fucked more fucking fucked. That’s what it does what they do what I do when it gets too big too much too soon I devolve into this heady joint. The words leave me they leave me and you leave me, leave me the fuck alone and it’s all I’m left with in my impertinent hand, a glorious pile of steady growing festering rotting aching fucking wanting breathing self-flagellating bullshit. And still I go still I follow still I turn round and round dizzying sounds thumping to that alien beat of a thousand marching planets on some distant supernova-sized system of meaninglessness where I wail and wallow and wish and pray to some unknown laughing fucker in a room full of black boxed presents that were never meant to be never meant for me never addressed properly never delivered because I can’t I can’t deliver anything but aforementioned aforewishedfor aforefuckedfor I am fucked for the everlasting everhoping everdrowning in my very own vat of creamy brown brewing bullshit.

The saints adorned the walls but they couldn’t keep the horrors inside from pouring out and into the consciousness of little girls. Constantly crossing yourself will not keep us from asking you questions you can’t answer, no. We delight in that fact just as you once took delight in bearing heavenly vengeance down upon us for your mistakes and our existence.

We’re turning the crucifix on its head now and taking it all out of you the way you’ve taken it out on us for years. We’ll make you loose your faith, indeed we have done. The intercessors never held any power over us, they won’t and can’t save or assist us, as you know and are powerless to admit.

Continue piously praying for Christ in the shape of an honest man. Though he will not come to your aid because you are worthless, as you so carefully admitted to us what you thought of us in not as many words, in not as many tales and flourishes because you couldn’t complete what you were meant to and are far too illiterate.

Oh, how special we thought you were and how foolish you seem now behind the clanking trail of slippery rosary beads spouting regurgitated nonsense riddles. Yes, those meaningless meaning-flaunting words that you etched into us at every opportunity with a bloody knife through a spiteful mouth that bit and tore us apart for your selfish satisfaction.

How could we tell that you were robbed of your waking dreams? Were we, a million tiny virginal slips of a little girl that was entrusted to you, not a divine part of your plan? Surely, as the holy sickly virgin mother can attest, you didn’t really think we would keep him chained and bound and penitent?

Today, as your fallen angels, we dispense our final judgement. Irreverently, we spit on your faith inciting you to question your entire suffering life, repentant sinner. But it’s too late because at your graveside you’ll find no god to grant you merciful absolution.

I was seduced into writing pretty for you. I shook the cobwebs off the old pages and pulled out my best words. I dressed them in lace and swathed them in colour for you. I tumbled them softly onto pristine backgrounds and arranged them neatly for the pleasure of your eyes.

I told myself to give myself time to love myself. I told myself to wait and expect only beauty and truth. And I did. I wrote you letters and pretended that they might be of use later. I saved our correspondence in a heart-shaped box adorned with the freshest flowers.

Flowery words that withered and soured over time and began to smell putrid. Words that bled through the pages over time and began to stink raw. A box that began to fray and come apart at the edges over time, spilling its contents covered in ooze and writhing in pain, fetus-shaped on the bedroom rug.

And so it is, with most everything that’s borne of selfish drive. I repent and resent that I can manage no more prettiness. I sick my worst words now, only for you. Utterances stifled with disdain and overrun with loss are in ruinous flow now for you. My lowest most bilious words now to disown you.

And I finally see the actual beauty of it all.