Sometimes, I just write stream of consciousness while chain smoking in my car.
If you only allow yourself to want what you already have, there is no risk. No vulnerability. No fear of rejection, no discomfort, no hard conversations.
There is no growth. No chance to see or be seen in new ways. No moments of trembling fear, and no seeping bliss when the fear is unfounded.
If we want what is safe and never touch what is terrifying, then what are we wanting for? Where are the heart-skips, the moments of heat, the flushed lips and exhilarated kiss? Are we really present if we only want what we already know we are allowed to have, or does the terror of asking ground us deep into the moment of desire?
Give me real, or give up the game. I want something that gets me out if my head. Something that raises my blood pressure. I want beyond what I have words for asking because I only know how to want safely. I want what you have already given.
Yes, and.
I want more than that, if my fingers could reach and grasp for words or images or something, anything, that feels not safe.
I want with permission; I want to want with extravagance, to desire with decadence. I am safe, so safe, always safe and you, you make speaking not-safe. You make speaking not-safe because my lips are trembling and I am suddenly craving with eloquence and it means that words, words are not always safe because sometimes “please” is more than I can speak because it betrays the prodigal natural of desire.
A broken stone. Fuck me harder, I whisper, because you cannot hurt me, cannot touch what aches without pounding deep into the core where my neurons misfire their way to my heart and my body is scrambling, trying to find the places where the disconnect rides between my lips and my mind because craving is far too intimate a word for safe desire.
And this is safe, and not-safe, because I cannot touch the parts that are truly real when, everywhere else, language comes like honey but with you, I find that words degrade and tremble, fragile drifts like ash from last night’s fire that we burned from the bedposts and now wake without moving, or stirring, or breathing, for fear of disrupting the crumbling concepts like safety and feeling.
Monomaniacism 