the wound speaks

I’m remembering the day you broke my heart, it seems like it was yesterday, it seems like it is now. I wish I could follow up on my own thread of thoughts, and I can’t: this moment I love you more than life, the next minute I want to run, far and fast, for my life. Who are you? My slave, my puppy, my surrogate father, my angel baby at my breast, my demon lover who wants to feed me his body and give me life with the prerrogative to lock me up in a cell like a pet woman to adore and to whom you can administer pleasure and pain, life and death? Complex. Your compact body holds my pleasure, my need, and … what combustions of emotion unknown to me? In your arms I turn into a furious river and I want pain, the pain to be alive, the pain to be so part of you and yet so infinitely alone. At this juncture of my life I am this body I loathe and love, I expose and protect, this ambivalent thing without a root. I see myself as your torture victim and yet I come without you even calling. I create the scenarios, I the punishments and the rewards. When did I become such a lone thing, that no amount of love can reach me? When did I become so sad, so sick? I speak about your body and in my heart I know that what I’m hiding from is from looking at your face, your gaze. Is it easier to create a monster than to look at what I have: a man. Only a man. Someone with needs and wants and a desire to be held and loved. And maybe it would be infinitely less painful, but I .. am so … frightened.