i'm back from outer space

i think things are for the best if i ignore my sex drive, heart, and emotions for the time being. by not touching anyone, i am the perfect balance of nothing and alone and empty and incomplete. i don't have to worry about incongruencies if there is no substance to my self.

it was pivotal for me, last year, when my father had his back surgery, and i was so upset. this tearing down of my male figure. and all the while i was looking for hands to hold on to, and tom did not offer his with anything genuine.

tom was a spineless asshole. a bastard to the highest degree.
someone that i love.
i am not sorry for a word of what i said. not one syllable. i am not sorry that i accidentally called him. i am not sorry that i was drunk. i'm not sorry that i told the truth, because it all felt right coming out of my mouth, slurred and hostile. i'm not sorry for feeling anymore, although i would certainly feel pathetic if he knew. i could be okay with my cellular device exploding.

my grandmother is dead, and it finally hit me, because i found this book i had that smells like her house. i'll never go there again. they sold it. i'm awful, for not falling apart a month ago and for not saying a word about it after the fact.

i don't understand my interactions with others and friends. it's no surprise, not like me to keep friends very long. even with erik, there is this lack of respect, fakeness and boredom involved in our interactions. most of the time the only reason we see each other aside from meals is to attend democrat-friendly events or so he can get drunk with the alcohol in our room. everyone else i associate with is preoccupied with terraforming mars or becoming a doctor. i should know better than to forge friendships with people as introverted or self-centered as myself.

i have never been this confused, lost and overwhelmed at any point in my life, aside from short periods in 8th and 10th grade. this is going on longer. it's nonlinear and serious. i lack people in my life that i respect and understand. it is hard for me to care about anything anymore, when all i want is to drop out of school and leave here, a completely unrealistic desire. so instead i sit around, am quiet about it, do my work and study for tests and every day i feel more insane and restless for doing nothing that feels close to right for me.

i have been doing this alone for a long, long time. i don't remember the last time i felt loved. or i do maybe, but it seems so far away that it isn't something i can grasp regardless, and i have to question it. it might as well all be divided up into inconsistencies. instances that don't add up when you place them side by side. i won't omit the details of everything that i am.

lips pushed into lips, on top of me, you're on top of me, and your tongue is my tongue. gyrating into me, hips against hips, in this cycle of pelvic religion and praise. and when your erection is pressed against my interior thigh, hot and anxious, i have found my faith.

knowing hands become roving hands become all knowing hands when these hands of yours slide over my breasts. and they are so practiced so skilled that they move with deathly precision over every nerve through the layers of cotton. there is clarity. it's soft swirling, whispering static. like we're at the movies and my nipples are your jujubes.

and when your being and my lower half collide, i will pretend like i do not fear the worst. that your lips on my lips/lips is all i want. that your trail of tongue and kisses down my stomach will work out. and it will when i am breathing so hard, loud enough to drown out the shakey kid who hasn't been going to church. it will when my nerves are exploding stars, and it's just your familiar, boyish hands on my hips finger tips up my thighs tongue in cheek in my second sacred heart.

give me a reason to get on these knees and pray.

my sex drive is untouched, insatiable. this studying, reading, and journalistic writing would come easier if i was easier. i'm not the only one who sees myself with no one. sex is one plus one equals two.

&
so it was over. my mouth, eyes and falling heart were accomplished, successful. but we touched otherwise with such discretion, that i could only feel like some girl at a bad party, all eye liner and haze.

this is my contrition. that i am stupid, not for what i have done, but for what i have felt. i told you- i feel closer to you. you said- i feel tired.

so you roll over and sleep, tangled in my sheets, in my life. i feel sick laying wide awake facing the wall, already wanting to wash or burn everything you've touched. sharing my bed is intertwined too closely with trust that i don't have. and when you're gone i promise myself i will do just that. i will bleach you out of me.

because i won't ask the questions you can't answer.
when i woke up you were holding me.

on the end of the bed, staring at the wall, at the spaces between the postcards, beside you. i was guilty of not trying hard enough to memorize every detail, noise and touch. and even more so for trying to forget all of these things. washing my sheets and burying mascara-stained pillows in the ruins of my room, never to be accessed again. and it makes me think it's a good thing that you are gone. but you were always leaving, the whole time i knew you. goodbyes are hard to erase from sheets and faces and memory. especially when there is no other documentation then my self-serving cheek and the prick of your lips.

there is this part of me that is so ugly, i could never feel beautiful.

I think some god of some thing should give me a small black box. The happiest box. A child in the deep end of a pool. An obese woman who has just bit her way into the cream filling of a snack cake.
The happiest box-
With a small red button.

And this small button should be adorned with pristine, ivory letters so expertly carved into the red, balloony plastic.

ORGASM, it proclaims with a kind of pride that you can only burn in hell for.
ORGASM.

Glistening like sweat on a gym floor.