Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Strokes of blue.



It is cold outside to the point of misery. Despite the central heating, the blood in my feet is frozen, making them a grotesque blue-black. My shrink says I exhibit deviant sexual behaviour. He says there’s something very wrong with women wanting to be consumed whole, something wrong with them breaking the music of their bangles for it.

I wait all day for him to sink into his decadent reverie when he returns to me, filthy from the sins of living. I re-live his days, practice the things I'll say to him days in advance, the way he drags a glass into my hands and pours a drink into me. There’s a recession out there somewhere, and employment is hard to come by so they make him work harder though he says there isn’t much to do. He tells me about tax hikes and benefit cuts but these things don’t matter because we’re not a family. Is it wrong to spend your days imagining someone covered in your skin, wrapped around you? Is it wrong that his smell lingers though he goes away for days. He is with you when you pick the strawberries from your garden, pay the bills, and wash the conditioner from your hair. He is with you, when you walk down streets full of running people, with an absent smile, secure in your knowledge of no knowledge. 

Your says there’s something wrong with wanting it so much, wanting it despite never having had it, not being able to walk away from it.

They come in with their contagious diseases, leave a tickle in your throat. There's a faded wedding band imprint on his finger, but never a wedding band. In the morning you're anaemic, but you must get up again, get doused in his favourite perfume. 

Does it feel wrong?
No.
Then it must be.
But I do it without your permission.

It is cold to the point of bitter misery, and both your feet are freezing so you ask him how it will work. He says all else will cease to exist when you finally lie beside him. As if a room can contain all your restrained emotion before it fizzles out with a pop. Perhaps the scotch loosens him up, and he confesses wanting to exploit you. Exploit, a filthy word of manipulation and abuse. Of moulding clay in ugly forms of your liking. Your shrink says it’s classic Stockholm syndrome, he harvests medical terms, you invest in fantasies. You kiss again and again, but not the soft, deeply meaningful sort. He starts speaking about great men, stops, kisses you again. The kind of lips who will never cede control till they will break down completely. It feels worse every time, but you keep going because he needs this sense of power, and frankly because you like it. The scotch makes you an appendage of his physical needs and you close your eyes, because in the darkness, it’s easier to pretend.

Never mind I’ll find someone like you..
He laughs, calculated and cruel. 
There is no one like me.

His mind has wandered else where, and he pulls away from you to do something on his iPad, his fingers so gentle on the touch screen. He puts the gadget away, takes off his glasses and tumbles into sleep. You sit up with his scent upon you, finishing what little scotch is left in his glass.
Sometimes it lasts in love, but sometimes it hurts instead.

8 comments:

  1. "Is it wrong to spend your days imagining someone covered in your skin, wrapped around you? Is it wrong that his smell lingers though he goes away for days. He is with you when you pick the strawberries from your garden, pay the bills, and wash the conditioner from your hair."

    And you're back....and I am slain.

    ReplyDelete
  2. slain to the core. you and your merciless words. *sigh*

    ReplyDelete
  3. And Sometimes we want it to hurt..cos we are the ones who want to be consumed..and shrinks will never know a thing about it

    ReplyDelete
  4. This was quite a read !
    The paradox of it being wrong, because it doesn't feel wrong and the way you capture the male tendency never to cede control until they break down completely - makes for a wonderful insight into human psyche.

    ReplyDelete
  5. "The kind of lips who will never cede control till they will break down completely"... </3

    ReplyDelete
  6. "He is with you, when you walk down streets full of running people, with an absent smile, secure in your knowledge of no knowledge."

    Yes he is. And you pretty much said everything I ever wanted to say at this point in time. And how beautifully you said it all and yet the simplicity remained intact. Bravo!

    ReplyDelete
  7. I've been away for long - but I know this post. I've lived it:)

    And since you said you missed my writing, I post here - in photos - regularly:

    thetaletellerinlondon.tumblr.com

    ReplyDelete