It's the smallest things that let you down...

They were out shopping, browsing through the underwear in a department store with pretensions, the red-head's fingers flickering expertly through the racks to find the perfect size for her.  She riffled through bras and knickers in vibrant colours, embroidered and appliqued lace trims in contrasting colours, even ruffles, for goodness sake, the brunette shook her head at the sheer extravagence.

"I like wearing nice underwear," she explained, pouting slightly, "And not just for him, for me too."

"But what are the logistics of underwear?" her friend asked, "How do you decide how many knickers to buy to match, for example?"

"Oh, I tend to buy two pairs of matching knickers for every bra, if they have them.  And in this case, well, one of the matching pair can always be accidentally tucked away at his house, just to test how strong his marriage really is..."

Mugged

I am too weak and

you are too tempting, please

leave like a stormcloud.



Storm tossed reeds bounce back,

"you are strong, independent,

she needs me," he pleads.



My needs ploughed under

dark soil so yours can grow, forced

to my fallow time.



No coffin for this

love killed by your thoughtlessness;

naked mouldering.



Repeated goodbyes

touched to fiery sparks, puddled

blisters left to heal.



My essence pools,

slows to mirrored ice, blue sheened

to reflect you back.



also featured at The Camel Saloon

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I don't deserve this title...

I'm doing so well, I tell myself.  Just passed the previous "best time" of 23 days without contacting him.  I'm now on 25 days.  Why am I even telling you this?  Or telling myself this? 



A plaudit for being apathetic and doing nothing, well go girl, you deserve an award for that.  Clap hands that you managed to set up a situation where doing nothing is it's own reward, how strong you've been!



How strong that you are sitting here counting the days.  Can't get up and do something, you might lose count.  How strong you are to remain rooted, battling off incipient claustrophobia, to let worn-out thoughts flit and fit in your head like fruit flies inside an empty wine bottle.



Stop already with the metaphors...

unresponsiveness...

i cry in the bath

no matter how hard i try

there is no climax

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Hypocrisy

I wonder if he imagines me still... 

17 days since I said goodbye (again).

Once I managed 4 weeks without contacting him, but I'm not sure there is anything to go back to this time.  Or, well, at least anything I would want to go back to.

But I want him to still want me, I wish he would be burned up thinking about me.  Pumping one out in the shower where she will never know.  Thinking of the things I did and things I said.  He will be checking online every day to see if today will be the day I would break down and send an oh-so-innocent message enquiring how he is.  He did that last time, well he said he did.

But he doesn't actually want to be with me.  I am not sanctioned.  I am only what he chose in a weak moment and not what he thinks society would choose.  How come that they really do tinge the "fun" girls like me with suspicion, tar-splotched good time girls?

And, for fucks sake, how do the girls who are not seen as "fun" ever manage to catch a man to marry them?  Do they go out and think, "Well fuck me, she's dull, I wanna spend the rest of my life feeding sperm down the shower plug hole, and occasionally, every couple of months, she might let me feed shit into her?" 

And I?  More hypocritcal, knowing all that shit, even questioning it like he doesn't, I still want the attention, I want to have the beam of interest focussed on me even as I decry the good time girl tag, the one I live up to so well.  I want, oh I want.  I want to be put first.  But I don't want to put someone else first unless they do first.

I do hope his life is fucking dull right now.  I hope he wants to tear his hair out with boredom; that will hurt as he shaves his hair so short, pulling it out would require individual hairs to be wrenched out with tweezers.  I would volunteer to do it, except I don't trust me to do only that.  He is only tempted with me if we are in the same geographical space.  He can say no when I am hundreds of miles away.  Well, he says "Yeah, but no" when we are hundreds of miles away.  He says if I was there he couldn't resist.  Great, yeah, I can resist anything but temptation too.  Especially convenient, playing away from home temptation... 

I fell for him because I thought we thought the same way, and I thought that he cared.  It has taken me 16 months to realise I was little more than a fantasy that had the added advantage of coming true every once in a while.  And really it was the fantasy and not the reality that sustained anything, for him.  And I guess I have to think that might be true for me too...



yeah, but, he imagines me still.  jacking off he imagines me.  kneeling in the shower in front of him, water drops pearling on my skin and anticipating the pearls he wants to release over me.

I'm afraid that I will die spending time with someone I don't like

Yes, I am talking to you.  Look at you, you sprawl there on the sofa.  Sprawl doesn't begin to cover it, you slump, you spill, you slouch.  You are a sibilant sloven.  Your feet up on the furniture, resting on the rubbish, remains of letters, magazines, chocolate wrappers. 

You sag.  You age.

It's not langour, it's way beyond that, it's a life draining laziness beyond comprehension.  Why would anyone choose to live like that?  Why do you choose to live like that?  Oh, you don't choose it?  You just can't be bothered to change it.

Billowing flesh, pale and pasty pink.  Hide it under the throw, pretend it isn't there as you reach for the next packet of crisps, the next gulp of alcohol.

The German word for lazy is "faul" and you know you are.

Sluggish?  That doesn't sound too bad, a slow pulse but basically everything under control.  Slug-like is more like it.  Fat, seeping, sliding through life at the pace of a snail without even the excuse of your house on your shoulders.

No wonder no-one comes around.  No wonder there is no-one who wants to probe your fleshy crevices, touch your pallid swollen skin.  And you know being so fat makes those folds fleshier and deeper, the journey into your cunt a longer route to pleasure, but no-one else wants to know that now.  Hell, most of the time even you don't fucking bother.

Get up off the sofa and go look in the mirror.  Not via the fridge again!  Go see yourself.  Really see yourself, not glance and see the memory of the girl you once were.  She was 20 years ago and is lost to you now.  Look at yourself, see what you really look like.  Nice eyes, yeah, but how many chins?  Your tiny mouth looks even smaller against the expanse of your cheeks, unhealthily flushed. 

Will you do something about it this time?  Will you?  Or will you just wonder absently where the gym card is, or whether your swimming costume would still fit?  And make a half hearted resolution to go into town and buy some newer bigger clothes?

My face in the mirror, I wonder vaguely what it would be like to finish it, to put an end to it, to kill this person that I don't like, even if it means I die with her.  But I know I won't do it, too much effort...





Thanks to SSF for the great writing prompt, click here to see story at SSF

coping...

You have knocked the life out of me,

I shovel dead things into my mouth

but I only taste the fermented stuff.

Honesty looks good on me, but on you?

I didn't need to know how easily

you put me out of your mind.

You made me feel alive and I hate

to think how long ago that was now,

I want to quicken myself but it does not come,

I can not come, it is an exercise in friction and

though the flesh is willing the mind is freaked.

Reject, side dish, bit of fun, reject,

slut, tease, reject; words bicycle in my head.

Dead mould, mushrooms for tea.

Yes, on the side, by the pallid fish flesh.  I will

shrivel up in the non-weight of your disregard.

This time, can I make the silence stick?

Can I pour in enough alcohol to make

me tongue tied and not voluble? 

Bitter exudations, oozing failure, and

in the morning, sweet rancid sweat. 

Success and failure both are counted

by apathy, not talking to you. 

Your life goes on, maybe to her you will

seem a little distracted, maybe? 

Maybe not even that, after all, she didn't

even notice when you went to her,

rubbed raw from our exertions. 

I try another tentative rub, but no,

rejected by my own flesh.  To drink

to sleep; to sleep perchance to weep.

You have knocked the life out of me,

and now half digested dead things

come back out of my mouth.





Also published at The Camel Saloon

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