100 Words

Divine idea ~ force of the moon  ~ a creature with cold, forbidding beauty, born under a dark star. Living a nightmare from which he cannot wake. A stranger to himself, he sits inside a prison of intoxicating rage, stitching the tapestry of deceit ~ his. He sells truth to the highest bidder ~ his word erratic as the wind. His exquisite face, grooved with sorrow. Happiness has died for this, a sad ghost. Still, his blistered, broken heart belongs to me. My love for him dances, naked, on my face. My love for him, the blood of his soul. And, perhaps, of mine.

I did not see you. Until we collided. In a most breath-taking and explosive way. It tasted of piquant, wrapped in a droplet of nectar. Maniacally, we plunged into one another. Our union, so fierce and forceful, the ground around us shook. Your kisses resurrected me; what delicious anguish, my rebirth. I wanted to drink you, eternally. But, cruelly, you would not let me. I craved your fiery and frightening essence. With each breath, a new lesson. With each teardrop, a new cleansing. And now, like any cataclysm, this us has evaporated, leaving, forever altered, the topography of my heart.

Restless. The kind of restless that requires me to seek relief. The kind of restless that sends me into that soothing coccoon ~ the hot bath. The kind of uncomfortable restlessness that seeps into my skin, that invites the torrential rain inside. A certain kind of emptiness, the kind that fills a room in an instance, has secretly crept in, secretly, because I did not see when it arrived, when it snuck into those silent corners of my heart. Unravelling, I feel as though I’ve begun to unravel. Unwrapping myself, like an archeologist unwraps a mummy. Daunting. Frightening. Breaking free.

I tried to let you go. I could not, could not let you go. Why? Does this make me weak, strong, or naive? People tell me to play the tape all the way to the end. But …. I think, ‘God doesn’t make junk.’ We aren’t meant to throw each other away. Still, some parts of you are broken, just like some parts of me were broken. I have spent such blood and sweat,un-breaking myself, I will not allow myself, or anyone, to tear it all away. Still, letting you go feels like skinning myself alive. Why?

I decided. I’d had enough. Enough of surrounding myself with pathetically wounded individuals who wrap themselves in a drug. When sharing becomes something I rail against, when I begin thinking that giving leaves me with less ~ then I have failed as a human. Can a substance really do that to a person? Can a mere drug turn a good person into a selfish miser? I don’t know how it could, but it does. I witnessed myself metamorphose into that small and greedy miser. I didn’t like it. And I wondered, how the fuck did I get here?

I failed to speak of my husband’s inability and unwillingness to conceive of parenting anything ever again, after the loss of our youngest son, his oppressive despair at such a crushing blow, or the bitter taste of what-could’ve-been that resided in his kisses, lingered on his tongue. All of these things lurked in the lines and angles of his face and lived in the undulations of his voice. I failed, also, to speak of oppresive sorrow that extinguished the passion which once fired our marriage. Or the desperate emptiness I felt, wallowing in its charred remains.

I spiked my pink lemonade with tigerblood, then rode the subway for something to do. Everyone, everywhere appeared closer and larger than normal. It reminded me of that movie, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I find it really annoying when they let human-sized reptiles on the train. Also, it pisses me off when the ground moves as I’m trying to walk on it. At one point, I thought I would drown into the platform. Assuming I escaped the train without being eaten alive. Note to self: do not go out in public under the influence of tigerblood.

I am a daughter, a mother, a wife, a friend, a sister.
I am an only child, also the baby of the family.
I am a broken doll, whose breakage has been patched together with that spiritual glue otherwise known as God.
I am an insomniac, a bipolar, a little girl, a woman.
I am a writer, a photographer.
I am a creative.
I am a beginning, not an ending.
I am a question, and maybe an answer, too.
I am a story, parts of which remain untold.
I am a message encripted
I am me ~ largely still a mystery.

With my back against a cold steel door, his torrential intensity seduced me. His fingertips glided along my bare arms, following each curve, painting his touch onto my skin. He fingered the diamond on my wedding set, kissing my hand. With his eyes closed, his lips brushed against the back of my hand. His gentle breath soaked into my skin. He sighed a sigh of tender longing, as my fingertips tentatively touch his cheek. The hush of his breath through my hair sent tingles surging through my body as he scattered tiny kisses along my throat. We breathed in unison.

I felt strangely possessed by this longing; it haunted me like a restless ghost ~ enticing, beckoning, teasing. And the Pilot, i felt his longing. It enveloped me like warm, rich chocolate: creamy, sweet, smooth, so very tantalizing ~ leaving me thirst for more. My body seemed unable to forget him, us. A thick, hot, lingering passion ~ the after-effect of an intensely intimate fusion. The suspended animation in which we stood, as we studied each other. And, a final kiss. Trying to memorize each line, each curve, each shadow of his face … to keep an etching of him in my soul.