Short and sweet

A soft buzz.  Fingers slowly teasing.  The first jolt as contact is made.  Pressing harder so as to dull the vibrations just a little.   Sensation starting to build. Hips moving up and down ever so slightly. Playing with the pressure to alternate the intensity.  Stomach tensing as the first wave hits.  Holding still as it spreads out and ripples throughout.  As yet another and another and yet another crashes over and through the body.  Hips bucking.   No holding back.  Writhing ensues. Soft sighs escape the lips. Warmth.  Wetness. Satiety.   

Woe

And I wait.  Wait for you.  To make that first move. To initiate. I wait for more.  Trying not to raise my hopes and expectations and knowing that it is already too late.  I wait.  

Wading

It's a slash your wrists kind of night.  

The mean reds are taking hold and the anxiety is building.  I hate it.  Been trying to distract myself.  If only I would do what I really need to do it would make most of the negative feelings to away. I'd be back to just melancholy.  But I'm paralyzed with inactivity. 

I don't know why this hits me like this.  And the doctors don't care.  Not really.  It's easy to say the things they want to hear so that we can all agree that I'm fine and can go about my day. 

Pretend the overwhelming tide is not there waiting for me to lose y footing and be pulled under by the undertow.  To ride the current deep beneath that rages and cries out to be let loose.  

I've grown accostumed to the wrist imagery.  The passiveness of them splayed outward.  The invisible cuts that run so deep because in my mind I have made them a million times.  

It's almost a soothing act.  

I can almost see how cutters find solace in their lonely actions. 

But I don't want the pain that accompanies a real slice.  And I don't want to die.  

I was becoming alarmed with my self until a few years back when I read a passage that saved me.  It was from an herbalist. She talked of an increasing need for the imagery to sever ones hands from their body.  A subconscious need to communicate to oneself that the work to be done was too much and not welcomed.  That the anxiety in doing it was creating a wish to obliterate the things that would carry out the unpleasant tasks.  

So much sense that made.  I do not wish for self mutilation.  Nor do I wish for permanent release from duties.  Just a temporary albeit psychological break from all that is in my hands.  

So I draw the lines again and again.  Feeling helpless in my inability to take charge.  Falling into the futility of it all.  Feeling the waves crash over me and clinging to staying upright.  

My hands attached.  Begging them to be useful. 

All the while physically feeling the slice.  Again and again and again. 

I know what will make it stop.  Ad perhaps tomorrow will be the day I can accomplish the tasks.  But not tonight.   

No. 

Tonight is for the mean reds and fanciful distractions.  

Tonight is a slice your wrists kind of night.  Hoping that you can feel.  And care.  Or better yet take action.  But knowing that the anxiety is stalking you  and waiting to pounce each time the tv turns off or the FB statuses quit coming.   

Its a panic and curse the 3 hr time difference so you can't call anyone night.  

All the while  feeling the imaginary numbness take over where the slits would be.  

Tonight is a feel all alone and bereft of company night as you realize it's getting later and later and yet you won't be sleeping night.  Until exhaustion finally wins out and takes hold of the body.  The sweet reflief of sleep coming way to late and bringing on.y a few precious hours of much needed rest. 

Acceptance of this state not making it better. Or worse.  Just bearable.  

Random

The sounds of little girls giggling and having fun is therapeutic. I understand that now.  Does that make me old? Sigh. 

Reality very rarely matches expectations. I probably should adjust expectations but then I feel I'm compromising my standards.   But on the other hand I don't want to keep being dissatisfied.  

Hmmmm

Anyone else feel funny when they throw away their disposable contacts?  It just doesn't feel right.  Even when they are threatening to rip because I've worn them way past when I should have thrown them away. 

Never underestimate the hello from a friend.  It can change your perspective for the day.  

Sometimes I'm surprised by what comes out on "paper" versus what I was actually thinking.  It's like there's two brains in my head with one that tells my fingers what to type and one that does the thinking.  Am I schizophrenic? Perhaps.  But only in the most amazing way.

That last sentence made me lol.  Now I'm the weirdo laughing to herself in the perimeter of the room.  

Does everyone have a soundtrack to their life?  I am almost constantly aware of songs going on in the background that come to mind while I go about my daily transactions in life.  

In fact I feel less grounded when the day to day grind causes it to go away.  

I have to admit I listen to some crazy music.  Of all genres.  My iPod with it's shuffle makes me happy and always surprises me when it slips from country to rock to classical to electronica to punk to folk and bluegrass.  

No opera though.  That's just too much.  Over the top.  A girl has to have boundaries. 

I have everything I need and yet some days I feel empty and alone.  For no reasons that I can pinpoint.  

It's frustrating. 

You never realize all your quirks until you have an outsider in your home.  

Watching you.  

Then you realize all your crazy.  

Her mind's version

She waited in the dark, feeling the cool breeze wrap around her.  

He came down the path.  She could hear his footsteps before she could make out the soft silhouette he made in the darkness.  

She whispered softly for him to stop.   He paused, only slightly startled by her presence.  

Hurriedly she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him into an embrace.  

Their lips quickly found each other. 

With the night providing a cloak, his hand pulled her skirt up and took a place on her thigh.  Urgently caressing her as she moaned into his mouth.  

She wanted him to take her right there but knew that at any moment another could stumble upon them in this garden.  

She pulled him off the path, further into the garden where a sculpture grew out of the darkeness. 

Soon she felt the cold smooth stone against her skin as he pushed her up against it.  Crushing her lips with his.

He pulled her dress down to free her breasts with one hand while the other fingered her furiously.  

Suddenly she pulled free.  She turned and bent over. Holding onto the statue. He knew exactly what she wanted. 

She heard the faint sounds of a zipper and felt him pull her panties aside. The tip of him rested for a moment against her before he drove it in with such force she couldn't help but moan out loud.  

She almost didn't hear the soft shushing noise he'd made, so lost in her desire.  But he stayed buried deep within her for a moment before beginning a slow but hard rhythm.  

He pulled out almost completely before thrusting back into her. Slowly he went.  Teasing her.  

It was too much. She came. The walls of her wet pussy clenching tightly around his cock.  

He lost all control and plunged in as fast and hard as he could.  Now they were both lost in primal fucking.  Each of them moving furiously toward release.  Her throbbing growing and intensifying.  Building to a second climax.   

As he thrust deeply and stopped she could feel him pulsing deep within her as he came.  She felt the second wave of her own orgasm start and try to match his.  

A soft sigh escaped her lips as he slowly pulled out.  

They said not a word.  Just rearranged themselves as they became aware once more of the sounds of the party just a little off down the path.  

A moment in time

Soft sigh escapes her lips.  

A hand slipped between lace and skin. 

Images of past lovemaking in her mind.  

She seeks to escape.  

Wishing her man was home.  

An ode to nothingness

A wave of melancholy flows over me.  I say I can't explain it but deep down I know the cause. Honesty. It's all I want.  From you. From me.  I think I can verbalized and then it it is caught in my throat only to be swallowed and once more hidden within my depths.  Do you experience the same?  

 A shame that's what it is.  A pity too.  

The strength that could come from being so raw is so appealing and yet that one iota of fear holds us back.  

Well, me.  I know myself. I can't speak for you.  

And are these just flights of fancy?  Imagined slights.  The workings of an over active imagination?  

I want to believe. And yet there is something. Something so primal it almost forces a scream. 

Intuition is a hard mistress to ignore. I beat at her and beg her to leave me alone.  

My self doubt is threatening to drown me. The unknown unbearable.  

Reality now a subjective thing that I can never know.  

Philosophical ponderings only adding fuel to the fire.  The only known is that I will never truly know if it is all lies or redeeming truth.  

All I know is how awful it feels and it refuses to leave me completely. Robbing me of all peace.  

A sad madness settling down and mellowing into the melancholy that has taken hold of my soul while waiting for miraculous words from you to clear it all away.   Futility. Hopelessness. A crescendo of despair.