Lately I’ve had a fantasy that you love me how I want to be loved. You hold me and tell me I matter to you. You undress yourself and me, lay me down in your bed or the bank of a river. Then you slip yourself inside of me, and with force I’ve rarely known,
This is what I wish the Joker of Hearts would say. dear Nest, I miss you so much and think about you every day. Txting you was one of my favorite parts of the day. I miss showing you pictures too, because a good plant pic or graffiti pic, I knew you would lose your
dear Nest, I see what kindness you did. Giving, caring, listening with your body. Being there for someone. Doing love as spiritual practice, steadfastly. I admire how completely you gave. It was rare and gorgeous. Then I admire how you pulled away, when it was too painful to maintain. You tried many ways to adjust.
Again I was lying in bed, trying to sleep. My mind was roaming around a lil bit, over the hills of the past. I remembered that time we were pretending you were a genie. Do you remember that? I can’t recall why we were pretending that. Maybe because I said you looked like a genie
Dear Elsewhere Miracle, This morning, I tried to go back to sleep. But I started thinking about you, and I missed you so much, I was crying. I got tears all over my cpap mask, and sleep was hopeless. Happened twice. I’ve loved a lot of people, through the years. No lack of love, in
I woke up with that feeling from before, that all the cells of my body were singing for you. Not loud singing–a quiet hum of desire. As if my cells were tiny sea creatures, singing for the salty sea water, or for the moon, to pull them in the tide. I’ve thought of this experience
Dear Mama, You are my favorite and my darling. Oh, how I long for you, sweet dear Mama. My heart feels weird and full, to speak to you. How far away you seem. Where did you go? People say you’re inside me. But where? My heart? Where in my heart? My hands? I doubt it.
Sex is a vulnerable ritual that creates veil-rending pleasure. I see God, in the transcendent union. The glitter of God shines for me, intoxicating me, while I’m being penetrated by someone, coming for someone, envaginating someone, making them come, giving myself completely. Sex is about ecstatic intimacy for me, but most people don’t see it
I wrote you a letter a few days ago–trying to explain how my ACE score is 9, which gives me weird problems. I was abused and neglected in almost all the possible ways, as a kid and teenager. The ideas I learned about the world, and the coping strategies I developed before the age of
I was talking with my therapist the other day. She said, “It’s all imagination. You know how when you go to a place like an amusement park? There will be one of those wooden things, painted on one side, with a hole in it, and people stick their face through it, so someone else can