May. 13, 2003 - 11:53 a.m.
This is me, curled up in this overstuffed chair, typing away like a madwoman, as if the very process of typing is in and of itself an outlet. Nevermind the meaningless words, just pounding out on this keyboard should release this restlessness.
I just want someone to stroke down my back and hold me curled up in their lap. The days wouldn't be as long, the nights would be warm.
I want tenderness insterspersed with the pain, so I can revel in the sharpness of their differences. I want it all. I want every aspect of myself to be fulfilled.
And the world at large looks at me as if to say, but you ask for too much. You are too greedy.
Fuck you!
Why can't I have it all? I am the center of my universe, and I damn well deserve it. I deserve it all. Every sublime little moment to be filled completely, endlessly, with passion and love and rage. I want the highs and the lows. I want you to make me weep. I want you to twist my heart out. I want you to make me laugh and sing and squeal and bleed.
I want you to reach into my core and tickle my soul then rake nails along the side and cause gasps to escape involuntarily from my open mouth.
Bury me in the sin and the gin. Let me writhe with onlookers drooling in the shadows. Give me back my cigar and my bourbon; wrap me in velvet and brush my hair before tugging it back to leave hot, wet kisses along the line of my neck.
Anything else is just shallow.
