"Do I Terrify? Again.
“Do I terrify?” —Â
He does not think so for some reason.
I look at him like I am peering through a telescope. His mind could not be farther than mine. Yet I peer deeper still and see it. He is so lonely, like me. Yet not in the same way. He yearns in the physical sense. He sees my breasts and my curves and my slits– this is what he truly wants. A physical release of self. Losing yourself to the passion of the moment and throwing yourself in it until you are nothing more than pleasure and pain and the moulding of one body unto another. So I let him, for it is so much easier to surrender than fight. Who cares what I want? I can provide this release to another no matter what I truly want. He will take it for himself anyway. So I may as well delude myself into believing it is what I want too. The throes of passion that are taken, yet not given freely. We will both pay a price, not yet determined in the current moment but the prolonged moments of time that will come.
I grip his shoulder and peer into his depthless eyes. The kind that have already peered into the near future and determined their own pleasure. He sees me as nothing more than something he can take and take and take. So I let him. I spit and spread myself with the slickness of the passion ever present. At least I am wanted in one way or another. So I part myself and let him slip in. Roughhousing me and releasing me into a moment where I don’t quite have to “be.” I squirm and scream into the darkness of my heart, hoping that this will at least light her up for a moment.
I have already shed my skin. Like I do every month, I set her by the shore. My real self whom I abandon and abuse for the sake of feeling even if it is the worst.Â
He has never seen me before, yet he knows my beauty and his lust must equate to love. It always does with men like him. They see my eyes and my skin and my bones and they know they love me even if it is only a glimpse of the surface. Little do they know, once they see me shed layers further, they will see how terrible I truly am. On the real inside. I can shed and shed and shed and shed and shed. Then they will truly see what they are up against.
But not until they are so entangled.
Leave it in the cage, they say. I am nothing more than property, but not my own. I wish it was OK to stay inside and wish no more. Why does my heart long for so much more, when it is no longer there? I feel like a mistake.Â
Your sick in my hand. I stroke and I please until I have you fully in my grasp. Where I can pull and tug until you are sure you love me more than anything. I will entangle you with my web and my Self until you cannot take it anymore. All I have left is to shatter you into nothing. And nothing you will feel.
You will never feel anything like me. A mystery and a plug for your rage. I take it and take it and take it and take it until You cannot take it anymore. Will reflect you until you squirm and burn under the heat of the microscope.
For I have no self, so all I do is reflect yours. Your own self– reflected into you with a million, billion mirrors until you hate yourself but you hate me more. Because you cannot leave yourself ever, no matter how much you want to. So you leave me instead. And hate me instead even more.
Then I am alone to shed and shed and shed again and again and again and you hate it and you hate me. I hate to say it– that I hate me too. But I always have.















