sol, my soul

buttercups and crocuses and daffodils are bursting out of and brightening every previously ignored muddy crevice; dogs are frolicking across the soft, loamy ground; babies are giggling from strollers, comfortable and cozy in sweatshirts alone. winter has finally succumbed, and, god, am i glad for it.

i am further incensed and irritated with males today. the xy chromosome seems to override any sense of subtly or nuance. even my man is plagued by the underlying evolutionary motivation that compels them to behave so crudely, to leer and nudge friends. the same that inspired this:

I wish you, hardhatted, knew
(though I sort of think you, preying, do)
how my stomach sinks, chest contracts
walking past your orange vests and hats
set my jaw, stare straight ahead
you nudge your buddy as my cheeks grow red
lean over your tools, forced inside my sight
“hey, baby, got big plans tonight?”

seems never to disappear. some women relish the power of their pussies, some women delight in the dropped jaws, the intent trail of eyes, the lapses they incite. as i shed the winter skin of bulky sweaters, scarves and coats, the ravenous lobos return, sharp tongues lolling, licking their chops. there's nothing powerful in it for me. it's not nearly so flattering as it is threatening, predatory.

when i sent him that poem at spring's emergence two years ago, he responded that there must have been some shyness in me that prevented me from being proud when i found myself admired by construction men. i said then i doubted that was it; in the wake of this morning, i remain dubious. i just don't need the banal, bestial response.

this plays into my reaction to his reaction to women. i wish that he could rise above it. i wish that he could be bigger than his lust. i wish that he could transcend his chromosomal inklings.

maybe when i'm 45 and no one notices me, i'll feel differently. maybe when i started shedding my woolen skin in the springtime and men look past me to the more supple, tender undercoat of the younger women around me, i'll yearn for the whistles and comments, the glistening chops.

today, though, i want to enjoy the sun in peace.

toss me up and pump me full of lead

that he won't share them with me bothers me more than that he has them. because they're hurtful, i imagine, but more hurtful are the words it's private and i don't want to share it with you. the reasons behind that are many, and i won't be content until he divulges, something he is stubbornly committed not to do.
so, then, what to do?
is it wrong for me to grill him?
probably.
but it doesn't stop me asking, asking, asking. it doesn't stop me fabricating the answers for myself, which is probably more detrimental and painful than anything he could ever say.
he told me that he had to work at things for her, that there was so much that had to be sacrificed, but that he was willing to do it because they were partners and because it had to be about them, entirely about them. to do otherwise, he said, would be selfish.
he is selfish. he is incredibly selfish. which is why i was irate last tuesday. which is why i am downtrodden today. he holds himself consciously next to his breast, never permitting penetration, never letting me through, making sure that there's always a certain distance. the same distance he told me months ago he'd realized was a mistake, the same distance he told me he wanted to try to erase, as he realized that it was a wedge between us, and that i'd never understand or believe his love for me until he was able to express his vulnerability. he tried. for about a week. then, he fell right back into it. selfishly, lazily, because it's easier to maintain than to change. the distance has always been there, making it a comfortable thing to leave.
just like when i told him the things she complained about with regards to her husband, he began to do those very things, attempting to accentuate the differences between his helpfulness and his uselessness. then, forgetting, he fell right back into it. i'm not so necessary to impress.
the way she responded when he introduced me as his fiancee killed me, continues to eat at me. not just because she's gorgeous, although i'm sure that plays into it. it eats at me because she was so utterly, unabashedly shocked. which indicates to me that there's something he was doing in her presence that made her think 1) that he was available and 2) that he was interested in her. which, quite possibly, he is. quite possibly, it's her dancing behind his eyelids, exotic, self-assured and brilliant.
he said it didn't matter if the expression of desire for me was derived from the sublimation of desire for others.
but i think it does.
how can that not matter?
and why does his response to me rub me raw, make me want to scream in his face, make me want to rip out his heart and brain and take a bite out of each in a desperate attempt to devour what he denies me?
he makes me so ferocious.
he says things fleetingly and forgets. his words issue forth, though, and stick. i remember every sound, every syllable. he forgets them as soon as they've left his tongue, because the things he says are meaningless to him while they mean everything to me. although i think at times he relishes it, he still does not realize the power he has to break me.
he watches me out of the corner of his eye all through class, makes excuses to address me directly, brings pictures of his dog ostensibly for everyone, but talks to me the entire time they're on display because i exclaimed initially in delight when he'd mentioned the dog's existence. he's wooing me in his weird way, breaking his otherwise stringent rules for me in a semi-creepy way. at least i know he's really into me, at least i know that he's enthralled. that's what is missing from our interaction.
i don't know how to enthrall him. if we weren't together, i doubt he'd check me out on the train. if we weren't together, i doubt he'd watch me walking down the street. if we weren't together, there're a zillion other lovely fish in his sea.
i need to play a better game. wanting him less is the key to his wanting me more. i know this; i've just never been able to enact it.
what i told her saturday, never wait by the phone for a man, in all seriousness i should apply to myself.
for the rest of my life, i cannot be eagerly awaiting the moments when he manages to fill my hole.
especially when the spackle he often chooses only expands in my crevices like so much dead, dull, depressing weight.