how i love to love my body

i apologized.
but not until i found myself as close to being him as i possibly could have been, thinking about how the bedroom could really use a few more mirrors, how i wanted it fast and now.
not until i needed the same did i recognize the asshole i had been.
hormones.........maybe.
hers are definitely doing a number on her. so that she's suddenly sorry, too.
booted today harder than i have been this entire time. he is getting big.
tonight will be interesting. there's nothing for me to squeeze into. no way for me to hide it. i will be blatant and large. and the reactions should be a treat.
she asked last night if she could drink the milk from my breasts and my theories reeled all over again. attachment, orientation, deviance. most six year-olds probably wouldn't be digging lapping at their mothers' nipples.
i submitted. detailed all the difficulties and submitted. he said he couldn't believe i'd laid it all on the table. but that is what i do, compulsively, impulsively, always.
and too soon.
maybe her reaction will be warm. and green.
maybe her reaction will be cold. and barren.
submitting elsewhere, too. i should write about it shooting from me, suddenly, awakening sensation i never imagined.
emasculated ejaculation
he wears me on his hand steadily steadily thrusting
he wears me on his hand shooting shooting spinning
he wears me on his hand and i need thirty times his force
he wears me on his hand seeking perfect pressure
he wears me on his hand until i suddenly explode
he wears me on his hand while i gush and trickle down my thighs
he wears me on his hand tenderly helps me down
he wears me on his hand until i wear it on my sleeve:
i can't do that myself
there. two minute something. to later be perfected.

brave new bitch

he turns it around and turns it around and turns it around so that the issue is not that at hand, but something underlying, something about me.
something i need to change.
so that i'm the one saying sorry.
i'm the one feeling badly.
feeling all too familiar.
this is why i don't communicate. because i can't stand the trampling response. because no one ever likes for me to tell them how i really feel.
and this is why i only communicate in extremes. the email was a happy medium. and, really, could have been a whole lot worse. he doesn't want to admit it was self-serving. i didn't suggest the vacuum. he adopted it. he doesn't want to admit his percentage, however slight.
i cannot candycoat. i cannot censor my emotions. i cannot skirt the issue so that nothing is ever hurtful, so that things never sting. i cannot band-aid my every phrase. i cannot avoid things that might pierce, singe. sometimes it helps to hear hurtful things. sometimes there are things, raw and uncensored, which are necessary to swallow.
he suggested i statements, which seems not just kitschy, but very second grade to me. maybe it's more productive, as he implied. maybe it never gets you anywhere. maybe you run in circles with feelings that never intersect, with lurking accusations, itching to be made. maybe you never confront anything directly. it's all such a dance.
his method is strict strategy.
mine is upfront, flagrant, uncalculated. but real.
he said he didn't grow up in my family and is therefore not used to our method of communication. as if it makes us freakish to call each other on our shit. the screaming and yelling could go, but i think it's important to call a spade a spade. what if i told him he was being manipulative? how does that differ from his assertion that i'm insecure? he's not making i statements. i don't feel like i should be held to a different standard, just because he wouldn't say the things i say to my siblings to his own.
this is why we should not marry. because i would call people on their shit. and i would be widely disliked, a noble savage in a peaceful, sedate, soma-induced world of indirect emotion.
he said we're a good pair.
right now, i'm not sure where.
we need to find a new way to flow. not my parents. but not his, either. something our own.

needy

not that i needed her to tell me that i would do a better job, but maybe i needed those words from her.
not that i needed him to be under my thumb, but i know that i needed the acknowledgement, the consideration.
not that i needed to slam the phone into its cradle as soon as i heard his voice, but i needed a moment to breathe.
not that i needed him to want me desperately, but i needed him to sympathize and realize i'm still craving a new job.
not that i needed her to forgive me forever, but i needed to know i hadn't crushed her delicate insides.
not that i needed him to unconditionally love me, but i needed him to shed some gluttonous greed.
not that i needed her to understand me completely, but i needed her to try to touch how it feels.

too far along. long gone.

my toes against the clammy pink vulvar tile nuzzle soapspotted sweatsplotched silver nozzles
as i listen to the steady abundance of his flow in the bathroom beside mine
i imagine phallic freckles fading into the flaccid folds of his dick
the sunny vibrant vileness of his acrid stream
the pale reactive wisps of his thin thighs and the dingy boxers bunched about them
my toes peek coyly from their sudsy bed cherry red and dripping
wrinkling
some day i will have old lady feet
maybe then they'll want to dance