Addict

I'm an addict.

It's true.

I have an addiction.

It started out innocent enough...just a little bit here and there, just for fun now and then.

After a while, though, I wanted more. I started looking for excuses to get it, to get my fix.

Then it wasn't enough to have a little here and there. No, I wanted more, and more often. Every day, in fact.

Pretty soon, it was all I could think of - the next fix. In between times, I was watching the clock, thinking about the next time. It never lasted long enough, and I found myself trying to get it any way I could. I couldn't concentrate on anything but the next hit. Even in the middle of a fix, I would think about how long it would last, and when I could get my next one. When I couldn't get it, I was grumpy, depressed, and unpleasant to be around. I couldn't sleep if I had to go without it.

I had a couple of days where it was 24/7, and it was amazing. Going back to my old use pattern was hard, and it wasn't the same. After a few months, I needed another big score...four days this time, and I had to share, but it was still amazing.

I love my addiction. I have no intention of getting clean from it. From him.

Nope.

He's under my skin, and that's fine with me. Anyway, I'm pretty sure the Betty Ford Center doesn't have anything to cure love. Thank the Gods.

The Empty Room

Gods cursed little voice, nattering away at me - if I didn't know better, I would claw at my own head to dig it out, make it stop. I can understand trephaning, really - perhaps those ancients who practiced it had evil little voices, too, hurling nasty, hurtful things at them from within their own skulls until they couldn't bear it any more and had to relieve the pressure any way they could.
~~~~~

Hello?

Hello??

Nothing...an echo in the dark.

Hello?

Echoes.

I'm in an empty room, and I'm echoing.

There was someone here not long ago, and the room was full to overflowing.

Now? Now, it's empty.

There was a need greater than mine, and the presence left to answer it.

There is always a need greater than mine. Always has been. Always will be. I've gotten rather used to it, had many years to grow used to it, to that other need that is louder, more insistent, pulls stronger. Story of my life. Sigh.

Hello?

Nope. Still alone in here.

Rather used to sitting in the dark, listening to the rustling remnants of conversation, of motion and light, things that shattered, scattered, fell to dust when the room emptied of everyone but me.

I can't leave.

And anyway, where would I go?

Hello?

Nothing...

Just an empty room.

Your Words, Sir

Your words, Sir
Thick and slow
And sweet
Flow through me
Honeyed
Heavy
I am languorous with them
Stretching upward
Reaching outward
Hands dropping gracefully
To my pillow
Tracing a path to the place
On my neck
Where I want your lips
Murmuring
Your words, Sir
Soft, gentle,
Whispers
Shivering through
To my core
Brushing so delicate
Against my heart
Shattering it all the same
Your words, Sir
Flow through me
The pleasant lassitude
Of lava burning
Through the center
All the way through the center
Your words, Sir
Leave me hungry,
Quivering
Wanting
More

Of you

And

Your words, Sir

Butterflies

There are butterflies in my stomach. They've been there for days, flying through the anger, the sorrow, the bitterness.

Their wings softly, gently, patiently flutter, dissipating the clouds, making room for...something...something else...perhaps beautiful.

There are butterflies in my chest. They've been there for days, gliding through the cold, unconcerned with anything but their own brilliance.

Their wings softly, gently, patiently flutter, frightening away the loneliness birds that perch on my withered, stone heart.

There are butterflies in my head. They've been there for days, painting the grey into something more to their liking.

Their wings softly, gently, patiently flutter, brushing away the cobwebs, airing out the stillness, opening doors long closed.

The butterflies dance...

Silken Strands, Gentle Hands

So often, I wear it up. My hair. I wear it pulled back or pinned up or braided, hidden away. It's my best feature, the one thing I am proud of, and I hide it away.

I have yearned for gentle hands to pull it loose, carefully, remove the pins and ties and run curious fingers through it, silken strands tumbling down, tangling, clinging.

I have yearned for gentle hands to caress, to stroke, to run underneath, at the nape, where the hair is softest and quiet little shivers wait to run their course.

I touch it myslef, brush it, run my fingers through it, almost but not quite satisfying the want...but it isn't the same...

That Thing You Do

I don't pretend to understand, sir, what it is you do.

I don't mean do as in work, as in polite conversation, what do you do?

I don't mean do as in what you do to thrive, to bring light and lightness of being in to your life.

I don't mean hobbies, pastimes, or how you fix your hair.

I refer to what you do to me.

I mean how you make me want to be...someone...somewhere...else. Better. New.

What is that?

And still I dream of someone who isn't there and wake with an ache that can't filled, calmed, soothed, because you can't caress something with nothing. You can't fill an empty place with dreams, wishes, hope.

Frustrating, sir, frustrating.

Fearful, sir, fearful.

The Angel knows better, she does, than to give way, to stand down, to open, unfold...trust.

The Angel is a fool.

What is that thing you do, sir?

Love, Crave

I love a man I should not. He is not my husband. I have no right.

I love a man I should not. He is tall, solid, warm, low, and rumbly. I love him secretly, when I am alone, at night, in dark, quiet places.

I've written of him in other places, to other people. If words could purge him from me, entirely, cleanly, make him gone, or never was, I would write of him tirelessly to be free of him.

Because I love him, and I should not. It is folly. He's tender, gentle, kind, smart, and attentive. I love him painfully strong, big, overwhelming.

I don't want to love him. I want to love the man I married. I despair of this love.

He loves me back, clings like a cockle bur to me even when he isn't there, reminds me with his scent on the breeze - pine, smoke, something indefinably him.

When he is not there, I crave his heat, surrounding me, melting the ice I so carefully layered around my heart to ward him off.

When he is not there, I crave his presence, nestled against me in the night, skin to skin, feeling him along the length of me, his breath a mantra in the dark.

When he is not there, I crave his kisses, soft, sweet, insistent, passionate, toe-curling, breath-stealing kisses. Grown-up kisses. Kisses that leave me stunned, delighted, feeling well and truly loved.

When he is not there, I search for him, desperate for a few stolen moments...and when he is there, I run from him, craven, craving....

It's a hell of a thing when you're haunted by a dream, a figment, a construct of the imagination; when someone who isn't there, never was, fills the emptiness, completes the spirit in a way the man you married can't, won't, doesn't even know is there.

Cameras in the Closet*

I see you, seeing me. You think I don't, but I am wise to your ways, and I know where the lenses hide, behind mirrors that do not quite reflect as they should, in light fixtures, and other places you think so clever, but my paranoia is more than a match for your intelligence.

I hear you hearing me. You think I don't, but I am wise to your ways, and I know where the microphones hide, in electric outlets, behind the large paintings on the wall, and in other places you think so clever, but my paranoia is more than a match for your trifling toys.

I am wise to you, and yet I continue as though you are not there, because I do not want you to know I am wise. If I keep on as you think I should, you won't come seek me out, perhaps take me away, sequester me.

I hear the clicking, the whirring, the static crackle on the phone, and I know what you're doing, but I don't care, because as long as you don't know I know - I am safe.

*It's not all real...sometimes it's just imagination. Or is it??