Image by Carnoodles via Flickr
Lines… It’s become a tangle of lines to pacify myself. A weaving I can’t comprehend or fashion into a usable garment to clothe exposed parts… There is no space within me that I haven’t ventured – stomped, slashed or distorted. I can’t be me – not ever, not really. I am what I need to be in the moment – or to be soft for another. Only when in argumentation, debate or reciprocal sex – am I me… The rest is but a reflection off a mirror image – not of my own, but of whomever I think is passable. When I drink I am reminded of self- she burns. She leaves me on fire with ideals … and wants. I become a petulant child who screams into the thickest parts of myself and like glitter – aspects of me rise like moths in tall grass… consuming me. So very splintered… I keep thinking one day … all of me will find comfort.
A friend of mine told me that when he was inside his wife – he could feel more than just her wetness, or form… He felt her… He felt her breathing, her pulse…
He smelled her…
He was connected in a way he couldn’t put into words or find words that could convey the deepness of what he felt ; sensed or just knew…
Is that love? Or another form of love? … I know many- felt a few.
Is that love? Or another form of love? … I know many- felt a few.
