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Monday, May 17

Dear Diary

Day One.

He comes to my room. There is that tingle when our arms nearly, maybe, almost, brush up against each others. I’ve got a circus in my belly, anticipation is clawing at my gut. I’ve got to piss. I’ve got to cum.

Catch me offguard and kiss me hard on on the mouth, force my lips to let you in. Bite, bite, the back of my neck and it zooms, this electric energy, all the way down my spine and to my cunt. It’s messy. He tastes like smoke and whisky.

Day Two.

I’m clumsy. I’m tripping over my words, they stumble on my tongue and fall out from my mouth. They land on the ground and he delicately steps over them. I want to sway to the ocean in your walk . I want our skin to morph.

I hear him, hard breathing in my ear, deeper inside me. We break. A million pieces of him and pieces of me on my bedroom floor, oops, where am I, that’s you, thats your piece, this is me, this is my piece. We’re a mess. You’re lost in me and I’m lost in you.

Day Three.

If I were a spider, I’d have eight long arms to wrap you up and keep you warm. If I were an apothecarist, I would bottle up your laughter and taste. Just in case I forget this moment. (I never will). You shall be all mine, only mine. I will keep you in a little box under my bed.

Day Four.

He’s waiting for me downstairs. I don’t care. Sometimes I don’t even realize what I’m saying until I’ve said it and it’s out there, I can’t take it back. The words are just hanging in the air waiting to be swallowed up. A smile, I bite my lip, your mouth is open. your lost meanings are attracting all my senses.

I hurt you purposely, I wanted to see you cry, to test you.

Day Five.

We take up arms, our past mistakes that manifest as ammunition, we stake our territory and hurl words, bullets of hatred, spit out the anger across this vast no mans land, once my bedroom, now war torn, the gaza strip has shed less blood than I have tears. you dont break my heart, you carefully peel away the scotch tape holding it together. dont do that. fix it.

We make a play, find a strategy, pinpoint the weakness, we drill away til we splinter, crack and crumble. A pile of dust, an empty promise, hollow words. your lost meanings make perfect sense. Fuck you.

We seek refuge in vengeance and pride, regathering strength in our respective corners. - in the blue! in the black! weighing in with a heavy heart! I stand at 7 feet tall! Statuesque! Amazonian! Indestructible! If only in appearance! (I want you to be the one shouting my name).

Raise the white flag, call for armistice, I’m tired.

Day Six.

You watched me paint, you liked my lines. it’s been a while since I’ve picked up a pencil. But hey, I could trace your features. I could close my eyes and trace your lines. you fucker, you seeped into every possible surface of everything I see.

I have to keep myself busy, I hope you understand, I can’t sit staring at the walls all day, and this room is heavy with smoke, empty cigarette boxes, an empty stomach. Bedsheets I need to wash, fuck you. fuck these last remnants of your scent. fuck the songs that all sing out your name, your face. fuck you for these lost memories, they make their way home at the most inconvenient time.

I have to keep myself busy. But other boys, they don’t feel like you. I got a boy who looked like you. I put my arms around him and let him kiss me, I shut my eyes and pulled away, he didn’t taste like you. I walked away.

Day Seven.

Once upon a time when we were young and reckless and in love and gave freely, we raced on through, running on a full tank of searing hot emotion, we had no rules, no guidelines, or anyone telling us what to do, we ventured forward pouring ourselves into the great big sky and all the infinite possibilities the open roads ahead held for us,.. We jumped in, rolled up the volume, rolled down the windows, put our full weight on the gas and drove for a lifetime, and found ourselves at the end of the world, still young, reckless, in love and giving freely.


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