"Let the church of my legs say bless. Let the church of my breasts say oh god. You have found the presents I hid from you. You have grown in me a stomach I can never fill." —Sierra DeMulder
I'm not sure how I feel about the Poet anymore...I want someone beautiful to be with me this Wednesday (my favourites are all away or unsuitable for this particular task). But for some reason, I don't think it can be him. I don't ask for much as a lover; just make me tea, share my bed and occasionally hold my shaking hands, that is all. I thought kisses, validation and comfort were sort of implied when we became more than that. But I'm not special to him; the world does not turn round because I'm in it, the way I think and feel is not beautiful because it's unique. And, being a fellow lover of girls, I expected more...
My god, your skin is so soft,
Can I unhook your bra?
(Not for a selfish desire for pleasure,
But to simply marvel at your body with more than my eyes).
Instead, my bra is removed because that's what you do before you have sex; you get naked. Meanwhile my brain is still tracing his collarbone and trying to remember what I ate for dinner, and asking myself why I let him use lines like, "you know you want to..." and "just a little bit more, it'll feel good" when I say no, stop, it's hurting. Because I'm sad and sick and choose not to let it bother me; my brain has perfected its defense mechanisms by now. And he knows this. Besides, it's really hard to sort out my feelings when so much of my brain is consumed with #YOFTSO.
I am so much more than a sad girl in a 'Tomorrow Has Been Cancelled' jumper with a preoccupation with the past and a rejection of the future. And if he can't see that, I'll find someone who can.