when it thunders through my skin right after i'm pricked by a thousand needles and i'm not sure i can breathe, every muscle in my body pulls tight.
sometimes you watch me. sometimes your bright eyes fasten on my face, an invisible leash pulling. your breathing is quick and untroubled, you watch my cheeks flush and neck arch. i still don't know what it looks like. i never watch myself then, unable to bear witness to that intimacy of myself, the orgasm. as much as i'd like to say each one is a gift for you, it's not. you force them from me, and take them away - my version of bon-bons, i suppose.
i want to tell her that that's what it's like. i want to tell her that the release following, when your body expands as far as it will go and holds there - the beating of your heart a sonic wave that roars out everything else...
the letting go. letting it happen. letting it happen *to* you. there is no longer a sense that anything belongs to you, even of the things you don't want to happen, the things you are most afraid of.
you don't allow me to filter what i'm thinking - there is no privacy. i may not have walls up, i may not be secretive or private or choosy with my words.
i want to tell her this: that if she is yours, if she wants this, she will have what she wants and craves. and also,
everything she doesn't.
photo "the art of losing", credit to kaddy courtesy of flickr.
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