2004-02-23

Possession is the sweetest drug

To feel possessed and possessing

even for a fleeting moment

An eternal moan of pleasure

At the thought of being taken

To be someone's possession

Just for that fleeting moment

And all I wanted was a conversation - I walked away with a need and a desire stronger than anything I have yet known. And the whole conversation was about how people only want to posses things to make themself feel like they have a place in the world, like they are necessary. And while I was talking to him I felt necessary. I felt that without me his life would be somehow diminished. But that's not how it is at all; he would have someone else to talk to, someone else who would feel necessary because of him.

And why does it have to be a him? You would think that i could have resolved the idea of sexual tension long ago, subsumed it into being nothing more than a pleasing sensation to be brushed lightly across (like a nipple) and then let go. But this ache, this pulsating want, this feeling like muscles and cartilige are being shredded for the absolute craven desire that fills me and yet leaves me empty, so empty.

Its got to do with my career crisis, I know, because i told myself long ago that I could never ever have anything lasting and real with this man and I have always known that and been satisfied with the occasional ship passing in the night but now because I'm feeling empty about me I see the square peg for my round hole and like a child I want it and will scream until i get it, or until I am pacified with a new toy or a sweet.

And with a sad and bitter laugh I remember how I played with his back hair, and how much I loved it, how neanderthal and earthy, and how unlike my husband (that cold ice mountain of intellect)it was to be able to touch, to feel, to swirl my fingers around and around for what was literally hours. For I am of the earth and fire, I am not of air and water, I am grounded and palapable and real and smell like paprika that runs through an old woman's fingers.

And writing is like the mother's hand that strokes my head and promises that all will be well tomorrow.

Oh my captain, be careful of the endless sea.

bitch - moan