I’m starving, I realize, sitting there waiting for you to arrive. I’m hungry for you. My blood almost claws out of my skin with its eagerness. I’m restless. So fucking restless. I can’t focus, not even on you, just the lack of - of anything - and how every cell in my body is screaming for it to be filled. NOW.

The phone goes ignored. If I answer one more call I’ll lose the fragile grip on my patience. I turn it off when it starts to ring again a second later.

I’m blinking rapidly, pacing - have you seen those addicts coming down from a high? It’s something like that, and it eats at me.

I try to sit and end up standing again. I can’t explain why it angers me, but suddenly its there in my mind. My temper has awoken with a vengeance and I feel it rush through my body like fire in my blood. I grit my teeth and my brows knit together.

My palm runs along the back of my neck and I feel the tightness of the muscles. I suck in a breath and let it out slowly. Slowly.
…. ….
So, in a manner this is my apology, my love, for just how hard my fingers dug into your arm when I saw you. For not kissing you first, but instead dragging you out of that fucking room and into the hallway.

I shoved you against the wall and heard your head hit the drywall - I didn’t care, I followed you in and allowed you no space for breath before I raped your mouth, tore at your lip, clawed at your shirt. I heard your cry against my mouth, but I still dug my fingers into your thighs and I know my nails scored your hose and the skin above your hose.

I left a mark on your neck, that one you had to hide this morning with makeup and clothing. Two half circles. I saw the bruise. I saw your skin, pink from being worn by the stubble on my cheek.

I don’t think the stain is going to come out of your shirt. Or out of mine.

However, I’m only sorry for not kissing you hello…. first.

I don’t dream that often. I rarely sleep enough to escape into that world where imagination and reality mingle so freely together. That being said, as I sorted through a small box of items, looking for an old picture that my mother requested, I found a folded piece of plain notebook paper. It was aged, the edges torn, worn away. The paper itself had been crinkled and I had a memory of me balling it up moments after writing down what I’m about to tell you.

I retrieved the paper from its exile somewhere around the trash can and folded it up into neat squares. I took the time to place it in this box - the same box where I keep the priest’s rosary and the ugly wooden and worn crucifix my grandmother gave me - the one she pressed into my palm only weeks before she passed. It was a box of importance, the rare things I kept to preserve their memory in lieu of trusting to my own to care for them.

Things I’ve chosen to…not remember…if such a thing is an option.

I located the photograph and set it on the bed beside me. The paper, I unfolded slowly. The words, written by my 10 year old hand, in crisp letters of graphite, caught my eyes. It was a brief sentence.

Remember the dead cities.

And just like that, I did.

I was writing about some hot phone sex with N, but I got distracted, so thus, I offer you the following search terms for you to pick through….

Search engines sent these people here. Some are self explanatory, others…..?

sadistic women
excess
sadist
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jts stockroom
sadistic master blog
sadistic excess
female submissives blog
sadistic
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hate sadist
put her on her knees
bend over the chair
sadistic love
puckered hole
sadist masters
whipped her legs with belt
jt s stockroom
daemon nipple
noose neck long hair strangle
nawa yoi
glittery tags
scorpio woman sadistic
her breasts pressed against my chest
sadist thoughts
true that i m so in love with you
twisted sadistic pictures
kristin kreuk
my son started cupping my breast *Not something I’m down with….
sadist women kink
whipped women welts
geckos fucking *Too kinky for even me.
jt s_stockroom
sadistic crucifixion
emotional sadist profile
bullwhip
sadistic thoughts
glittery lipstick
female sadist art
dangle noose pregnant her tongue *where do I begin?

I’ve had one hell of a day.

Write? Ha. I’m going to get a bottle of whiskey…Which I will do nothing with.

In fact this entire week, well, let’s mark it down as a complete failure.

I need a vacation, Im about to go out of my fucking mind.

Not something I consider myself to have embraced.

But even I recognize common sense - logic appeals to me even when emotion tends to run just a little too close to the surface. N hasn’t apologized in so many words, and I haven’t forgotten the issue that brought us to this point. I simply acknowledge the reason in what she does say and I allow it to soothe me. Right or wrong.

Perhaps it is possible to remember how we once were, but not embrace it. I long for the days when I was less bitter, less jaded and considerably less worldly about women and relationships, truth and lies. Yet, I also remember just how foolish I once was. I remember just how blind.

I’m still blind to many things, and all too careful to note perhaps what I should not. I think the person I was would hate the person I am, even while I mock my former self for his naiveté and lack of character.

Thankfully, he didn’t have a vision of the future and the past fades quickly under the bright light of speculation.

Here is my olive branch.

“How sweet, how passing sweet is solitude….”

To N, who in her search for ‘good’ silence, found it.

I began this endeavor quite a while ago at your request. My motives at the time were far from clear, far from pure. I think you knew that, but then, too, perhaps you didn’t think I would take the ring you offered me. Perhaps you didn’t think that you would ever be free of him to even think of us, you and me, together again.

And here we are.

I know what echoes in your head. Likely the same thoughts that sound in my own. We are nothing alike, but we are a matched pair. Ying and Yang, to be trite, but less stark than that image would suggest, where the edges of your white bleed together with my black. Yet we are still two, distinct, stubborn people.

I began this task at your request. And now I suspend it. Perhaps you have gotten contented with my voice being here that you failed remember your own. At this point, I don’t care what reasons you have. I heard the distinct challenge in your tone and I answer it with this action.

I will not post here for a month. You won’t have my voice here. You won’t have it as a warm blanket to comfort you when I am not around. Instead, this post will be your company. This post will be your reminder of the cold silence that awaits you.

And you know love, that the cold makes a deeper cut.

If I post before this time next month, it will be because your apology, written out and exquisitely detailed, rests in my hands. ….and they will know it as well.

Until then.

-D

“…But grant me still a friend in my retreat, Whom I may whisper–Solitude is sweet.” - Cowper

I’ve broken ‘it’ again. ‘It’ encompasses the many things that have graced the ‘darling niche’ described so eagerly by the real estate broker when I was considering purchasing this house. ‘It’ is the vases, blue and red, clear with swirly things, and that oddly shaped one made from my efforts at pottery. (Yes, I took a pottery class)

‘It’ is the bust of my father that my mother gave me, the one I still haven’t told her is in about a 6 large pieces, resting in a cardboard box in my upstairs closet, and the one responsible for the oddly shaped dent in my wood floors. I haven’t forgiven myself for that one. I somehow think he hits me upside my head from heaven for that error.

‘It’ are the glasses, both for seeing and drinking from, in bottle and glass form, or in flat lenses that make up my reading glasses. I am reminded of these by the odd number of wine glasses in my bar. That 250$ stemware I purchased as a stupid reward for some award I received, of which 3 have been sent onward to wineglass heaven. I am reminded of the reading glasses by the bills I pay for replacing the same stupid prescription.

‘It’ is the snowglobe. I can only blame my nephew for this one. He shook it until it flew out of his hand and broke upon the floor. It no longer snows in Paris as a result, the Eiffel tower is considerably shorter, and I have an idea of what makes that ’snow.’ It isn’t magic, and it doesn’t clean up well.

‘It’ is the perfume. May I never smell ‘Beautiful’ again. I hate the scent.

‘It’ is the glass inside of various picture frames. ‘It’ is also the pictures inside.

Why has ‘it’ been broken so many times?

‘It’ never seems to be where ‘it’ needs to be. ‘It’ is always in the wrong place. ‘It’ greets me at the door, in fair weather and foul, in clumsiness and grace, in anger and temperance. ‘It’ is silent. ‘It’ is always calm. ‘It’ is broken because ‘it’ can’t fight back.

And because I can’t seem to remember that ‘it’ is there.

My new ‘it’ are flowers - in a plastic vase.

I have high hopes for the vase, but the flowers are questionable.

Pray for ‘it.’

I hear the frustration in her words as she tries to get my attention. I simply don’t understand the sense of urgency she has to hear me respond with a flood of information. I don’t have the load of events lined up in my head waiting for my mouth to spill them out in one long breath.

My day was fine. That isn’t enough. She makes an effort to pry out information like a police investigator. If I am silent, the need for information increases. If I am happy, she wants to know why. It is only angry that she doesn’t nudge me with her suggestions - well, that too depends on the level of anger I am projecting.

I’m not good with small talk. But my taciturnity isn’t some symptom of a greater problem that goes unaddressed.

I say as much.

And what do I get? Silence.

It is amazing that we, as humans, have ever managed to cross this great divide between the sexes to procreate. There is something to be said for pushing through those barriers forcefully when asking only results in no.

And yes, I’m done with my project.