Torture

September 15, 2009

I try to identify the source of my anxiety in what we have, this incalculable thing that has sprung up between us.

Maybe it is the calibre of his words? Yes, his words are his ammunition, and I am slain.

No. That doesn’t work. Let’s try again.

His words are the sun. I am blinded. I am burnt. I am… nicely tanned and it’s time to turn over?

No, no, no!

This is it, the source of my anguish. His words, his words, they crash into me, they cudgel, they caress me, they craze me, they coerce me. I feel helpless, hapless, hurt. I’m overwhelmed, blissfully so, and I can’t fight back because he has everything, and I have nothing. The words are his, never mine, given but not received. They turn me on, they arouse me, they pull me in, I drown in them, but they are never mine.

Au contraire. My words, mine, les miens, are nothing, become meaningless and empty in response, because of, in reaction to. His. I’m left verbally naked.

And craving more. Words.

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3 Responses to “Torture”

  1. Jess Says:

    Good to see you back. 🙂

  2. Shell Says:

    omg … this is from september, right? so no chance of you finding my whimper here now … *sigh … i so know about all this … every bloody word …

    thank you (spoken thro gritted word-teeth)

  3. bohemienne Says:

    Shell — Thank you for reminding me to come back. How could I have forgotten?


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