My Metamour

goddess

My metamour is all woman

Brilliant, strong, creative, and pure.

She puts the Madonna/Whore theory to shame,

a domestic goddess in “fuck me” boots.

“Mom enough” by day and seductress by night

(and into the twilight hours of the morning).

 

An open book,

Her face a mirror of her heart.

Generous enough to give,

and wise enough to know what she deserves.

 

Caring deeply,

always,

yet

Not giving

a single

fuck.

 

My paramour’s goddess:

I want to be you when I grow up.


Go Slow

chaseme

 

Do not tell me that you “know” what I “need”, when you don’t even know me.

Do not tell me you are not like other men, and then put my hand on your cock during dinner.

Do not take off my glasses and tell me I look better without them–especially when you’re wearing glasses yourself.

Do not say you’re about more than just sex, and then expect me to put out anyway.

Do not tell me what to wear, how to be, what to think.

Do not ask me to be anything other than me.

I do not need you–any of you.

I can get sex any time, any place–I want more.

Slow, does not mean, please pull my tits out of my dress when you drop me off at home.

Slow, does not mean, please rush through our first date as quickly as possible, and pressure me into being tied up and blindfolded by the second date.

When I say slow, I mean slow like honey.

Natural. Sweet. Evolving.

Put away your agenda.

Get to know me.

See my value beyond just a place for you to stick your cock.

Don’t ask me about sex–ask me about life.

We have all the time in the world.

Go slow.

 


Grettle

 

My security blanket is torn

from where you left it

blowing on the fence

covered in shattered glass

and woven through with barbed wire

 

Yet I hold it to my cheek

because it smells like you

and it tastes like freedom and comfort

both at once

 

I can pretend that its sting

is the kiss of a lover

who tastes like cinnamon

instead of the bite

of a poison apple

 

Your house is piped with icing

the windows made of sugar

the walls, gingerbread

I curl up in the bed

where I am fed

before I am devoured

 

The smell of wood burns my nostrils

but I imagine I will not be pushed

into the fire

 

If I drift

to the scent of gingerbread and crackling wood

and make believe you are baking me cookies

instead of plotting my death

like the big, bad wolf,

will my dreams be sweet?

 

I missed the walls

The logs with the knots

the stain on the floor

the matted fur rug

the last mirror that said

“you are beautiful”

 


But

What would you say,

if I told you

I do not believe in love?

 

If something can’t be seen,

heard,

touched,

smelled,

or measured,

does it exist?

 

There are chemical reactions,

pheromones,

that fact that my biology loves the smell of someone else’s.

Does that mean I love them?

 

There is instinct.

The drive to protect one’s child at all costs…

Unless the child does something

that turns it off

and makes their mother

turn her back against nature.

 

There is desire.

The burning to have and to hold another.

Is this love?

The longing to plumb someone’s depths?

What happens when we get to the bottom?

 

Do we hold our breath?

Drown?

Can we swim in their waters

without ever wishing

we had made our home in

an ocean

a lake

the rapids

instead?

 

I do not believe in love;

I am not naive.

I know what I feel

I know what pushes me

I know what I have committed to

and I know what cuts me

but

 

If there is such a thing,

I want to see it.

I want to touch it or taste it.

I want it to exist

to be measurable,

immutable,

solid.

but

 

It is not; isn’t.

It slips through our fingers.

We create it, then dissolve it.

Say “I love you,” then

“I don’t love you anymore.”

 

I believed in you once;

I do not believe in you now…

but

 

thelittleprince


More Than Your Body

You are more than your body,
he said.
You are more than tits and ass and mouth and pussy.
You are more than your body.
Enough.
It’s enough, already.
You are more than your body.
Don’t walk with your head down.
Be proud.Strut.
No more being used and abused.
No more being treated like a thing.
You are more than your body.
Act like it.

Waiting for the Sun

A flower stands in the dirt,

Tightly closed,
Holding it all in,
Self protecting.
Eventually the sun’s warm rays
Coax it open
And it stretches its petals to the sky
Allowing itself to feel:
The warmth, but also the wind and the rain
The seasons change
The world turns
Causing the petals to wither and die
But if it’s lucky,
The root will hold
Through the darkness and the cold
And when its tiny piece of earth
Returns to the sun
The flower will be ready
Poke its head out if the ground
Grow tall and strong
Open up
And begin again