Possession.

Disclaimer: Mom, Dad, Di, Pastor, I have absolutely no idea what I’m writing about. I solemnly swear this is all too much reading. 😐

Rated: M  (Trigger warnings apply for sexual themes.)

Prayers to the Holy Father rise up, swift, and gentle, swaying, pleading on behalf of my thoughts, and my tongue, in advance; And although they rise above my head fervently…are inked in prayer booklet like the stories I write…more urgent is my desire to possess you;

Possess you…

I want to possess you, sink into your skin, burn your lips with a heat that is both pleasure, and pain, beginning, and end, until you whisper the name of God, sing His praises wholly, and certainly because all at once The Universe has unfolded before you, and I have gifted it to you–star, and moon, and rising sun–bitten glory into the surface of your skin where it spreads: fierce, bright, red, glowing–flushing your neck, and chest, and arms, glazing you like fire at the birthplace of fine china, and colourful, unbroken glass;

Unzip me: unzip the mask that holds me, and savour; Savour the revelation of loss, and gain; Touch: touch until it is not you, but I, who inhabits you; until it is not your breaths, but mine, that kiss you from the inside out–unwind you, unravel the taste that is your mouth, the heat that is your blood, spilling over, pulsing, spreading between us, consuming us both, as we twain, seek our escape;

Surrender. Do not make me beg. Do not steal prayers from me that are meant to ghost your skin.

Surrender. Surrender to the whisper of your hair against my neck; the weighted, easy pressure of your fingers pressed into the dip of my back, uneven curve of my spine–

Sink. Fall breathless against my breast; let the moisture of your exhausted exhalations bead my…

Sink. Do not request that our demons be exorcised. Forget them; forget them with the grip of my fingers in your hair; forget them with the first taste, the third taste, the last taste, the impression of teeth against skin.

Sink.

K.N.O.W. Tuesday, July 5 thru Wednesday, July 6, 2016. 22:30 hrs to 00:39 hours.

Author’s note: I blushed the whole, damn way through this.

O Where?

There can be no peace of mind in love,

Since what one has obtained is never anything

But a starting point for further desires.

-Marcel Proust (1871-1922)

O, where is my heart, beloved? Where has that spoilt thing gone, with its fickle measure, and sullen frown?

O, where has it gone, beloved? And what is this fluttering thing that fills up its empty space?

O, tell me, where has it gone, and why doth this queer emptiness that is so full, overflow my throat, and lungs, and stomach, instead?

O, do tell jaanu, where has that wicked creature gone that you have taken?

Is that it? That sweetness of light that flows ‘twixt the rising suns unveiling your laughter?

Or was it in the tender curve of your mouth, twisting to gentle bemusement?

O, tell me quickly where I can find that pesky thing you have taken with your laughter, and your soul, and your eyes,

For it is quite difficult to fathom what I must do with all this queer glow that beams from my chest like wolf’s moon at dark.

O, beloved, do tell where I am to find it–

That lost organ whose home has been stolen by a possibility so bright, I have not yet had chance to teach bespectacled orbs to not see the burn of flickering stars, still long from burning cold.

O, jaanu, tell my ears before they forget reason’s voice–

Where is that organ you have taken, and what dread glory habits its caves?

K.N.O.W. Thursday, March 24, 2016. 5.30-6. a.m.

😐 I just really needed a reason to use a pretty quote from that journal I never touch. That’s the story I’m sticking with.

Not Quite The First

When I first saw you,

You were little more to me,

Than a boy in short pants,

With skinny, hairy legs;

You had eyes that told too much,

And you were just another “project” of sorts,

My best-friend aimed to save.

We were young, and brazen, she and I,

And thought all the broken were ours to fix.

Young, and brazen.

 

When I first looked at you,

It was the summer of ’69.

No, I jest—you know my humour too well,

Us both ’94 babies who aimed things at twenty-one;

We were walking the cemented pillars

In our colonial best, my best-friend and I,

And you’d just graduated from a project to be salvaged,

To a boy with beautiful eyes.

I laughed in perfect humour

(So I wouldn’t have to roll my eyes),

But you walked by—

With the ghost of your name still on our lips.

That day, I found out, she was right.

You did have beautiful eyes;

Butterscotch, and amber,

(And that famous whiskey-brown the romance novels talk of,

When the sun caught your eyes).

I turned away, and poured that whiskey down the drain,

But the aftertaste of butterscotch,

Still burned my tongue.

 

When I first noticed you,

It was the year of ’09;

Standing on rough stairs

In pants that hid your knees,

With your back to the door, and the folds of long pants,

Sat neatly round your ankles.

You weren’t quite her project anymore,

So I smiled a rare smile,

Acknowledged your fine eyes,

And tasted whiskey doused in butterscotch.

 

When I first loved you,

It must still have been the year of ’09—

With that door against your back,

And fine eyes that asked too much.

I’d sipped too much whiskey,

Off a glass pane I couldn’t even touch;

But I did know right then,

Before I relearned sober,

That for anything you couldn’t ask me,

And all the things you wouldn’t ask for

Because you’d learned that wanting was too much,

I’d pour myself another whiskey,

And lace it with butterscotch

(The one flavour I learned to savour)

Because I liked the sunshine in your eyes,

And I’d be damned if I let you think

The only thing you would ever get if you asked for it,

Were rain clouds when it flooded.

 

When I first fractured,

I’d barely turned nineteen,

But I knew then, what I know now,

That I’d fix me just right,

So what we’d be all right,

Because ‘though you weren’t quite the first,

And neither was I,

You were still the only first,

Whose eyes did all the right asking,

And I’d be damned if I didn’t stay,

And say all that mine had promised.

 

K.N.O.W. Friday (morning), November 6, 2015. 03:15 hrs to 04:26 hrs.