He wrote the words on my breasts yesterday, and I haven’t been able to remove them since. Not because they wouldn’t wash away…but because I’ve lost him and I don’t have the strength to remove all that is left of him.
Could drunk whore and fuck-up be the last things he gave me that are still tangible? The cum that dripped from inside of me dried on my thighs too soon. I had no choice but to clean up, for my own health. But I haven’t showered since.
I will. I’ll have to. I know.
But, if he doesn’t come back, what else will I have?
I thought of taking a picture. Taking it to Jimmy, the tattoo guy down the street. Seeing if he could make it permanent. But then, why? If he’s gone, will the words still have any power? And even if they did, why would it matter, if he’s not here to wield it.
No. I’m just sitting here, in front of the mirror, fondling my own breasts carefully, ensuring that I don’t fuck up his handiwork. I close my eyes and imagine his hands where mine are now. I pinch the nipples hard…angrily, even. But, I still can’t re-create the electricity he produces.
He made me cry. Blessed, painful tears. He pinched both of my nipples until I thought he’d surely disconnect them from my body. And then he grabbed hold of me and splayed me across his lap. He hit my ass so hard my breath caught in my throat and I nearly bit my tongue.
He was punishing me.
And I deserved it.
All of his anger and his pain and his questions emblazoned screaming patterns on my flesh. And today, it is tender. Like burns, the marks are raised and pink…welts that will melt away and lose the heat of his passion too quickly.
So now I sit here. Naked. Unwilling to cover it up. Looking at myself in the mirror like some sort of homage to my inability to stay sane.
There is no reason anyone should have to put up with this sort of crazy. But, if crazy is all I have to offer, am I relegated to loneliness? One night stands? Dungeons?
I do not have the strength to create my own pain. But, I need it. And without him, where will it come from?
Who will wield the knife? The rope? The words? The power?
Who will hold the pen that marks my flesh with truth?
I’m not sure how to find the way on my own, through this labyrinth. The pills, therapy, yoga, acupuncture, and countless types of self-medication can only do so much in the face of silence and self-reliance.
When you need the guidance of another more than you need life itself, who is there to understand? Tell a doctor that. Tell a friend. Tell your mother. See where that kind of honesty gets you.
I know. It gets you a room of white and a whole fuck load of quiet reflection and group meetings and pills in little white cups.
When what I really need is my pussy whipped…to be tied, spread-eagle and suspended in the air, floating and waiting for the sting of his whip. When he makes me count the lashes, 1…2….3…25…43….until I break.
Because when I break?
That’s when I feel
the closest to