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.

So... I am giving in to the 30 day blog challenge. I'm cleansing from...well, if you've read my blog you know ;-) A girl has got to keep herself occupied. Oh my, this is much harder than I thought.  19 days and counting! The first leg of the challenge is to share 15 random facts about yourself. I had a hard time narrowing down my list--I must be pretty strange. 1. My arms are unusually long 2. I have five tattoos 3. I fenced in college 4. I don't have hair on my arms or legs 5. I eat cheese grits at least twice a week 6. I've been known to laugh in my sleep 7. I'm deathly afraid of owls 8. I hate pears 9. I read "The Bluest Eye" every summer 10.  My only sibling was born eleven months after me  11. I've never eaten pork--except for pepperoni and bacon, but that's not pork. haha 12. I lost my virginity at 23 13. My name means "tranquil" in Arabic 14. I've been the same weight, plus or minus five pounds (winter/summer months), for mo...

I’ve shifted. Shaky bones. Everything that was meant for me has arrived. Slowly. In due time. In due time. I am my most radiant self in complement. The polishing. Adoration of thoughts not of my own. The worship of other as extension of self. I miss sober sex. Fresh touch and smell. Secrets. Transferred heat. Waking in the middle of the night to sense her here, there and there. Valentine’s day is for chumps. Love is for the brave. I’ve written you across my skin.

Dominant Dominique dumped me after I told her I still wanted to date other people. I panicked, begged to get her back, sending emails stringed with stars and roses. Her response, a three line professional email that read, “ You are a great person, but it is clear to me we are on two different pages. I prefer to cease all contact.” I almost lost my fucking mind.  My desperation, my sadness, wasn’t for her. I know this now. The wounds were my comeuppance for my carelessness with others. For days, I’ve been frequented by images, the energies of women come and gone, conversations and warm tears, broken bodies in my bed, my mouth on breasts, lips, between legs, and hands on my arms as I gather my possessions to leave. I've spiraled in to nights and days heavy with fits of paralyzing sadness. What have I done? What have I done? I am a thief in crimson lipstick.  I am purging. Slowing down. Thinking over. Closing my legs. I am tired. I want more than I’ve allowed. No ...

There are two women in my life now; they are diametrically opposed. They never converge, not even in dark alleyways on lazy shiftless nights.  I instruct Jessica (not her real name),  a petite, fiery brunette with green eyes, to buy lace panties and bra to wear for me.  She asks me what else I want from her. She does anything I demand and waits patiently for my permission. On the weekends, there is Dominique (not her real name)- a tall, thick, smoked brown business executive. She calls me her princess, refuses to let me pay for dinner, or drive. She tells me exactly what I should do, and I happily oblige. I'm experiencing some cognitive dissonance. Do I spank or lie still?  Grab hair or go to my knees? I can handle this, I tell myself. The tugging. The splitting of time. The role switching. The demands for my undivided attention. I cannot choose one or the other, for neither is complete. Then the realization hits like bricks, I've subconsciously conjured ...