some (very) personal writing I just uncovered on my computer. read at your own TMI risk. 500 words, 1 sentence.
I have often been charged to write 500 words, though the best thing I’ve ever painted in so succinct a frame was one sentence long – an invigorating, life-filled sentence, the kind I read often to remind myself how sex with words feels, the triumphant tang of conquering language not only in your mind but between your fingers and an electrical pulse of some kind: keys, scuttling like your lover’s fingernails down your back, or a pen, languorously stroking the page until yes, yes, YES – the mindfuck makes you come; then you recover, perhaps with a blanket corner tighter under your chin or a sip of your cooled tea, to read it again on the hour, because once more you’ve defied flesh to become one in an overwhelming submission to communication and you can’t yet bear to tuck the evidence away in a folder, physical or otherwise, like a cold streak when even your fingers don’t do the trick, not even to release what’s built up inside, the inexorable need to conquer or be conquered, to fuck and then fight or flee, or just to bury your nose in their salty armpit, drinking in the rush of togetherness chemicals like you’ll never hunger like this again, because next time it might be even longer that the howl builds; and now, without warning, I am here, not just we, but I, because you reach out in the middle of the night with your seeking hands and you croon to me with your sleepy breath that you see me, me: that hair on my nipple, the way my lower lips lie, the curls of my toes, now absent from my hair; you see me and you make me more with every clenching of me to you, every swelling of you in me – you tighten my lines and smooth my curves to make my self-ness even more evident even as I devote myself at your feet, wishing I had the hair of Magdalene to coax the oil between your toes, my tongue curling greedily around the tiny muscles and bones that carry my love, my master, my charge through his days and back to me at the end of them, when we are both caked with the ire and criticism of people whose eyes we have never met and return to our room, to pillows, to late night love in the ways our legs twine and our lips stick together and our musk smells like home; and in the day I try to toss you tiny slivers of the nobility I see in the tilt of your chin when you sing of angry men, try to slip them in between the pictograms and us-isms like your kisses between my thighs, reminders of how our affections are not just in grand sweeping gestures like the artwork on my side or the star-burned ring on my finger, but the tiniest of movements of the same muscles I use when you make me smile.