"drowning in a sea of faces, hardly keep my head above the surface..."
thirst (by deav 2003)
Friday, June 19, 2009
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
the heart of midlothian
by deav - 12 mar 2008
“tear my chest and grab out my heart
kiss it, lick it, toss it, stare
step on, dance on, spit on my heart
i won’t have a heart to care.”
“tear my chest and grab out my heart
kiss it, lick it, toss it, stare
step on, dance on, spit on my heart
i won’t have a heart to care.”
flashback
by deav - 27 jun 2007
She was in light spirit. They were in the other room, it was clean, the bed soft with the rattling of recently washed bedsheets. The window was open and the clear starry sky could be seen, no neighboring buildings from that angle. He smelled of fresh soap and cologne, snoring by her side. His hand touched her arm in his sleep and moved forward to her waist. It became slowly aware of her, bringing him closer to consciousness. He moaned and moved his head to kiss her on the neck.
Why not? She thought, not particularly in the mood, wondering that it would mean another bath after. It was hot, anyways.
It was still quite simple, then. She could not foresee how harder it would become as years went by. He was gentle, as usual. He had not become hesitant, then frustrated, then angry and rough. Yet.
But even as she slowly began to fall in that state of abandonment closely followed by the strain of building pleasure, she could fell that something was wrong.
She suddenly realized that she was panting, not out of desire, but out of fear. She wondered in slow motion that he would not notice, he could not tell the lines carved between her eyebrows and her growing moans now from her usual face of lust. Unless she told him. She tried to wash away the escalating sensation of anguish. Why now? She thought, now that everything seemed to be all right? Maybe she could just bear it, for the sake of starting over. Because she wanted everything to be well again.
But she just could not. All of a sudden she realized she had stopped breathing. Behind eyes shut there were images floating, lurking and she knew it was not about him, it was not his fault. She did not want to see the images, memories of things she was unaware of having experienced. But she could not open her eyes, she would have to look at him and she could not look at him, not now. But neither could she just bear it, she could not control the urge to push him away. And she did.
But he did not realize it was not the repulsion that comes from unbearable passion, not this time.
“Please, stop!” She did not know if she had said it aloud. She began to struggle and squirm. He groaned startled when she punched and kicked.
“What?!” Still panting, he released her, scared, worry washing away with paleness the flush of pleasure.
She stopped with a halt, eyes wide-open, breathing heavily, tears still rolling by the side of her face into her ears.
Was she screaming? NO-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO! She remembered she had.
“What happened? Did I hurt you?” He tried to touch her but she cringed away.
“I don’t know.” She just pulled the covers up to her breasts and rolled over, her back to him. She just wished she could explain; say that she was sorry, that it was not about him. But now she could barely stand his voice, his heat, let alone look at him.
He did not understand, but at least let her be, jumping out of the bed and dashing out of the room.
She just wished she could vanish. She swallowed back the bile. She did not dare to close her eyes again, lest the images would come back. Oh, tears. Now she could keep them open and yet not see.
* * *
She was in light spirit. They were in the other room, it was clean, the bed soft with the rattling of recently washed bedsheets. The window was open and the clear starry sky could be seen, no neighboring buildings from that angle. He smelled of fresh soap and cologne, snoring by her side. His hand touched her arm in his sleep and moved forward to her waist. It became slowly aware of her, bringing him closer to consciousness. He moaned and moved his head to kiss her on the neck.
Why not? She thought, not particularly in the mood, wondering that it would mean another bath after. It was hot, anyways.
It was still quite simple, then. She could not foresee how harder it would become as years went by. He was gentle, as usual. He had not become hesitant, then frustrated, then angry and rough. Yet.
But even as she slowly began to fall in that state of abandonment closely followed by the strain of building pleasure, she could fell that something was wrong.
She suddenly realized that she was panting, not out of desire, but out of fear. She wondered in slow motion that he would not notice, he could not tell the lines carved between her eyebrows and her growing moans now from her usual face of lust. Unless she told him. She tried to wash away the escalating sensation of anguish. Why now? She thought, now that everything seemed to be all right? Maybe she could just bear it, for the sake of starting over. Because she wanted everything to be well again.
But she just could not. All of a sudden she realized she had stopped breathing. Behind eyes shut there were images floating, lurking and she knew it was not about him, it was not his fault. She did not want to see the images, memories of things she was unaware of having experienced. But she could not open her eyes, she would have to look at him and she could not look at him, not now. But neither could she just bear it, she could not control the urge to push him away. And she did.
But he did not realize it was not the repulsion that comes from unbearable passion, not this time.
“Please, stop!” She did not know if she had said it aloud. She began to struggle and squirm. He groaned startled when she punched and kicked.
“What?!” Still panting, he released her, scared, worry washing away with paleness the flush of pleasure.
She stopped with a halt, eyes wide-open, breathing heavily, tears still rolling by the side of her face into her ears.
Was she screaming? NO-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO! She remembered she had.
“What happened? Did I hurt you?” He tried to touch her but she cringed away.
“I don’t know.” She just pulled the covers up to her breasts and rolled over, her back to him. She just wished she could explain; say that she was sorry, that it was not about him. But now she could barely stand his voice, his heat, let alone look at him.
He did not understand, but at least let her be, jumping out of the bed and dashing out of the room.
She just wished she could vanish. She swallowed back the bile. She did not dare to close her eyes again, lest the images would come back. Oh, tears. Now she could keep them open and yet not see.
* * *
scribblings II
by deav - June 2007
M’eudail,
I put down the book for a while. I went to the kitchen for water and it just popped in my mind: “I need you.” I wonder what you’re doing now. Sleeping? Looking up at the oak beams in the ceiling, unable to sleep with restlessness not figured out? Dozing off in the leather armchair by the dying fire in the library, a book resting on your lap? Or is it too hot already for a fire, I wonder? But you left the window open. A gust of chill might eventually cool your cheeks and wake you with a slight shiver, as dawn breaks. I wish I were there to ease the crease between your brows with a kiss. And rub the tip of my finger gently on the deep red mark the rim of your glasses carved on the bridge of your nose.
“I need you” struck me with a shock, you know. I’ve been doing my best for a long time not to need anyone. I hope you will understand that it came then as a way of being at peace with solitude. And dealing with the dread of depending and being depended on. The need to be unattached. Free to go – where, I wonder?. But “I need you” comes now with a different meaning I can’t quite make out. All I know – feel – is, it’s huge, overwhelming. Scary. Like walking through fire. But I’m willing to do it if it takes me to you.
I hold my breath and shut my eyes and say a prayer for you. Sweet dreams, m’eudail. That feathery brush on your cool lips? It’s just the ghost of my kiss.
M’eudail,
I put down the book for a while. I went to the kitchen for water and it just popped in my mind: “I need you.” I wonder what you’re doing now. Sleeping? Looking up at the oak beams in the ceiling, unable to sleep with restlessness not figured out? Dozing off in the leather armchair by the dying fire in the library, a book resting on your lap? Or is it too hot already for a fire, I wonder? But you left the window open. A gust of chill might eventually cool your cheeks and wake you with a slight shiver, as dawn breaks. I wish I were there to ease the crease between your brows with a kiss. And rub the tip of my finger gently on the deep red mark the rim of your glasses carved on the bridge of your nose.
“I need you” struck me with a shock, you know. I’ve been doing my best for a long time not to need anyone. I hope you will understand that it came then as a way of being at peace with solitude. And dealing with the dread of depending and being depended on. The need to be unattached. Free to go – where, I wonder?. But “I need you” comes now with a different meaning I can’t quite make out. All I know – feel – is, it’s huge, overwhelming. Scary. Like walking through fire. But I’m willing to do it if it takes me to you.
I hold my breath and shut my eyes and say a prayer for you. Sweet dreams, m’eudail. That feathery brush on your cool lips? It’s just the ghost of my kiss.
scribblings (pencil tip rest)
by deav - 11 jun 2007
i can’t read anymore. it’s too painful. the smoke with a scent of vanilla burns my mouth and the rim of my lips. someone outside is boasting a championship. futile. it’s beautiful when the smoke goes up in perfect rings that shimmer and vanish in bluish swirls. when i blow out it’s yellowish and uglier, haze hanging beneath the lamp. it just does not linger enough and there’s no reason for another. the last sip of cool water, and the taste of vanilla remains fresh and pleasant.
i don’t want to think of it; yet the thought not thought hangs as much as the water that does not sink as fast as it should. there was rapture earlier brought by invisible hands and invisible lips on mine. i miss you so much. i write and shut my eyes.
there’s one thing i’m sure of: i have to go. through pain and disappointment. i have to go. i have to go. tic-tic. i shut my eyes.
i have to go. i boldface the i and sigh. tic-tic. i hope the answer comes with slumber. i hope i can remember. i shut my eyes.
i fill the cup again. i could have the pleasure again, easy in the cleft between my thighs in spite of myself. should i save it for when the hands are hot and the lips are real?
my hand hurts as i force the writing. i can hardly read through painful scribblings and letters erased. is it sleep, then? tic-tic. i snort but the lump in the throat brings the water back. go to bed. i fondle my knuckles dry. i drool on the page. go to bed. i shut my eyes. what i do next i don’t write.
* * *
i can’t read anymore. it’s too painful. the smoke with a scent of vanilla burns my mouth and the rim of my lips. someone outside is boasting a championship. futile. it’s beautiful when the smoke goes up in perfect rings that shimmer and vanish in bluish swirls. when i blow out it’s yellowish and uglier, haze hanging beneath the lamp. it just does not linger enough and there’s no reason for another. the last sip of cool water, and the taste of vanilla remains fresh and pleasant.
i don’t want to think of it; yet the thought not thought hangs as much as the water that does not sink as fast as it should. there was rapture earlier brought by invisible hands and invisible lips on mine. i miss you so much. i write and shut my eyes.
there’s one thing i’m sure of: i have to go. through pain and disappointment. i have to go. i have to go. tic-tic. i shut my eyes.
i have to go. i boldface the i and sigh. tic-tic. i hope the answer comes with slumber. i hope i can remember. i shut my eyes.
i fill the cup again. i could have the pleasure again, easy in the cleft between my thighs in spite of myself. should i save it for when the hands are hot and the lips are real?
my hand hurts as i force the writing. i can hardly read through painful scribblings and letters erased. is it sleep, then? tic-tic. i snort but the lump in the throat brings the water back. go to bed. i fondle my knuckles dry. i drool on the page. go to bed. i shut my eyes. what i do next i don’t write.
* * *
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