Me, Undone

We inadvertently saw a movie about fate, love, and magic. Or maybe it wasn't so inadvertent after all. It happened. After 90 minutes, I walked her out to her car, declined our scheduled dinner, and said goodbye. Tears burning hot down my face on the drive home. In the hours after, she sent messages in the sky. Searching for holes along my spinal chord. Biting down in me in hopes of a response. I turned away. But there are still moments when I crave her.  Feverishly trying to wash her scent out of my hair. We are a destructive pairing. She plays victim like a prodigy. Swallowing notes and chords whole. I am always the perpetrator.  She hands me her gun fully loaded. In another life, she met me fully woman. Washed of previous hurts, cleansed of desperation, and devoid of deceit. But not here. Not now. And I hate her for it. I will never not think of her.

Forget about the 30 day blog challenge for now. I've got more pressing concerns in my life.  For one thing, I haven't had sex in 33 days. I'm ready to scrape my eye out with an ice pick. This is senseless! My body is on fire.  I think about sex at least every hour, on the hour.  And I wonder,  can the man standing on the corner smell me? Can the woman glancing at me taste it? My skin is porcelain delicate and hypersensitive. If anyone should brush up against me on the street, in the grocery aisle,  I just might spontaneously orgasm. And nothing, nothing else will satisfy this hunger except the touch of  a woman.  Not self,  not thought, not mediation or yoga. Please. Hurry. Come. Discipline me.

The next phase of the 30 day blog challenge requires me to explain the meaning of my blog name. It's simple. "Me, undone," is me painfully naked and exposed. I write because I exist. Because I exist, I write.