secks and pain

If I had a lover chosen by the trust of animals, I think I’d be doing better.

Me, unable to parse lies and process deceit like a scanner that incessantly skips. I skid right past obvious deceptions of those wanting nothing but to derail me. To lay me on my back, shuddering. I know, now (stupid me) that these kinds of “lovers” frequently come to me. Mean spirits full of unseeing. Unthinking biting spirits. Scared to fucking death, scraping for a breath spirits.

And I – cowering, violence steeped, prepped and ready to swallow delusion spirit – forget myself and let them all bury me alive.

Some days, I get caught on pause, stop, and wonder what world of relationships I’m living in. Wonder why some people magically just get it right, but I fall off jagged cliffs all the time.

Is it because I’m too lonely? Bodily craving for the caving in feeling of sinking into another chest, hips, clavical, backbone, spinal chord?
Because I want to sing in between the spaces that only open after vulnerability of a certain kind?
Because part of me is purely physical?

I see the world through rosy red, flushed purple-pink, dark and sweet sex-colored glasses, all the time. It’s not a statement of desire as much as a tint to the world. I can’t help it. I don’t fucking want to. I shouldn’t have to.

Some people tell jokes. Some laugh at them. Some dance and others watch. Some hug, kiss, touch. Some pass without such. I think of fucking, non-stop.

Science at some point said I shouldn’t. People used numbers or test subjects to prove that I did it wrong. In response, I only ever tried to hide myself and get along. Secret documents, stories, songs. Secret longings to give my body up. Secret love for anyone.

These are things I haven’t owned in too long.

Sex, I am convinced, is not a dirty word. And if I’ve worked it into the fabric of my soul, that isn’t wrong. It’s the disharmonic harmonies so many use to play along that haunt me. The sad choruses we create out of betrayal and lack of trust. The bad words we form on lying tongues with bitter spit. The ways in which we bend and wrench. The hearts and intents we break apart. The love we turn to dust and trample under foot.

Safety is a thing I spent most of my life far away from. Consent a whisper on other people’s tongues. Trust a word I didn’t really know.

All I had was a god I couldn’t hear who’s patience was thin and shallow.

Late in life, I learned I was a shadow ghost of other people’s violence done. The end point of a long line of wrong. And I wondered why I felt like I had bad blood. It was more true than you could have, without proof, made me believe. Now I know I am a child of suffering. A surrogate of guilt and shame. A filament through which, god I hope, healing can pass again.

Unthinkingly, in my youth — I did it wrong.
“I didn’t know” is a line that meets up to nothing. How often we pass on violence in ignorant but pretty lines. In wisdom that is hollow but sounds nice. I sounded nice my whole goddamn life. Trained by an efficient hand.

By adulthood expectations, I still had so much to learn. So far to grow. I was late coming to the light, stunted runt, cowering in the corner, pushed away from myself by others fights and cruel words that I — at a very early age — learned. I loved those words because they were power on my young tongue. Of course, I didn’t know what damage they had done.

I was violence, caged animal, ready to claw at the first sign of weakness I saw. I was desperate to get out. To breathe.

Now, fully formed knowing of a guarded past, I live life on the tight rope of unlearning bad behaviour. Positive reinforcement seems to be working. Smiles can be made of more than plastic. Truth can come in many forms. Some smooth, some barbed. Some rich in nutrients, some laced with poison from another world.

There is more than one way to be enlightened and more than one way to fall. More than one route to the peak and even more back down. More than one way to be death. More than one way to avoid it.

I am trying to be a life-loving me.

I am actively learning.


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