Confessions
“Desire is a tricky bitch…”
I can’t even remember where I read that, but I know it was in the last week and has something to do with some smutty story… And no fucking kidding; desire IS a tricky bitch, and she won’t be controlled or go away no matter how much you beg and cry.
How much courage does it take to admit desire? How much to share with the world, the internet, the void, what makes me tremble in terror and delight? How much to say, “Yes, I want this, here, like that. Do to me what I can’t even make myself ask for.” Sometimes things catch your fancy while you’re still wondering how on earth they could be erotic to anyone at all. Sometimes what we know would make us fall apart is exactly what we want. Sort of. Not really. But maybe more than anything else. Maybe just me.
How can words, just words, simple words, wreak such havoc on my psyche? How can a few simple phrases, just so, etch into my brain, refusing to fit with anything else in there, slowly seeping poison across neurons until the rest of the puzzle that is me starts to break apart? How can it be better to try to keep the pieces together than to just let them fall apart and let see what happens? How can pain bring so much clarity and focus? How can control be so very elusive, and seeking for it cause it to slip away? How can not trying be the only solution? How can this make sense?
Nothing makes sense anymore. Logic smothered by desire.
Nausea and pain and pretending it’s all right. It’s not all right. It’s all wrong wrong wrong. I doubt it will ever be all right again. Unless I breathe, unless I pretend that everything is fine, and can I do that? How can I not do that? Isn’t it too exhausting to deal with, and wouldn’t running away, to sleep or pills or booze or some nameless other option, be better? Are there really options at all? Isn’t the only way out, through? How did I end up here, now?
I tell myself I won’t think about it, won’t do it any more, won’t deal with it. Over and over. And then there I am, doing it hungrily and guiltily. Am I trying to figure it out and make it better or make it worse until I can’t pretend to keep it together anymore? It’s like picking at a mental scab just to see it bleed, because the bleeding just feels SO GOOD. Making it hurt physically makes my brain stop hurting mentally. Emotionally. Why is it so scary to have feelings? Just to admit them terrifies me.
Forgive me, Father, Mother, for I have sinned against myself. I’ve violated my precepts, thrown out my dogma, willingly been trampled by a reality I can’t deny. All in the name of desire. I want. Can I forgive myself? What is my penance? How long must I make myself bleed?