November 24, 2018

To the Woman in Bed with my Man.

I want to hate you.

How dare you be so beautiful?

How dare you look into the eyes of something I call home and choose to stay there a bit?

I want to shake my fist and make you a problem, so I don’t have to face the terror of what it is to want something and let it free.

To feel my heart walk around in someone else’s body, pumping someone else’s blood—with no illusion of safety.

To let him choose me because he wants to, not because he has to.

To think I own him is like trying to hold his breath in my mouth as long as I can.

I taste it and let it play over my teeth and tongue. I exhale—slowly.

And it is you who gets to breathe him in.

I want to know you get the gift of this—to loosen my fist and face my demons.

Demon of control.

Shadow of greediness.

The part that wants to hide in the illusion of things always staying exactly the same—as if I’m not ever changing, moving and hungry like the ocean.

I am taught to fear your sex and the spell society tells me it is. That it could draw him away forever—as if he has no say in the matter.

I refuse to fall prey to the ugliness that fears you. That tells me I must be the only one he buries his head in when he is sad, the only one he thinks of before he gets out of bed in the morning.

The only one who sends electricity down his spine and gets him humming a tune for the rest of the day. How dare I try to deprive you both of that deliciousness?

Forgive me for not seeing you when I want to kiss you. I want to thank you for stoking the holy sex fire that awakens his body and fuels his engine. That ignites the light in his eyes—the light that drew me here to begin with.

May I feel you and be changed by what you teach me; no longer hating my sister for her sex and her power, but ready to soak it up, curious about what I can learn.

To your unending beauty that never took anything from me—that expands my love past what I thought possible.


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