You killed it before we walked.
You never gave our quivering feet a chance.
Splatter. It's dead.
Thursday, March 04, 2010
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
It'll be over before you know
It'll be over before you know.
The night will crawl away and the feelings too.
Will you be able to match eyes with the light?
Will you ever be the same?
What are you searching for?
Your ground will disown you.
Your heart will feel borrowed.
Let us put the pieces together.
Will you cherish the inevitable distortion?
Come along, let us go back again.
Set foot on this journey,
where familiar turns unfamiliar with each day.
Let us be resolute.
Let us start once again.
Who made me unlearn it?
Who made you forget?
Will we ever be the same?
How did we believe in the unending orgasm?
Believe. It'll be over before you know.
The night will crawl away and the feelings too.
Will you be able to match eyes with the light?
Will you ever be the same?
What are you searching for?
Your ground will disown you.
Your heart will feel borrowed.
Let us put the pieces together.
Will you cherish the inevitable distortion?
Come along, let us go back again.
Set foot on this journey,
where familiar turns unfamiliar with each day.
Let us be resolute.
Let us start once again.
Who made me unlearn it?
Who made you forget?
Will we ever be the same?
How did we believe in the unending orgasm?
Believe. It'll be over before you know.
Monday, March 01, 2010
Penetration
Practise doesn't make it easy or any less awful.
Experience only sedates you to the extent that it doesn't feel like you're dying. Anymore.
I still feel shy, peeling off the garb of honour and stripping myself in front of absolute strangers. Standing naked. Stark naked.
It's like letting strangers walk into your home and have them go through your pictures, try on your clothes, raid your fridge or read your letters. And while they are busy encroaching every single square inch of "your" sanctuary, all you can do is pass that photo album to them.
Deep inside it is tearing you down. Ripping each part of your body, one by one in a gruesome fashion.
It doesn't work like the movies. No one ever falls in love with us. No one finds us beautiful longer than the hours paid for. Nobody acknowledges us, nobody spares a stare.
We are living, breathing machines who are everything but human in the view of the world. There is no room for our feelings, our dignity. There is no room for us.
More often than not the make-up on my skin is less meant to attract you and more meant for me to hide. Hide under layers and layers of powder and glitter. It eases the pain, really.
But why should my profession create a crater on my character? I didn't compose the music of my life. I didn't realise when i slipped a word or jumped a note. I don't know what made my song a cacophony. Honestly I really don't remember what happened.
But you must know that everyday I am wishing, hoping to be that girl in your home. The one who went to school, the one who argued for permissions, the one who had friends come over, the one who is allowed to fall in love, the one who still gets scolded, the one who is loved.
I don't need your sympathy, just a bit of accommodation. Some room for people like me who exist for real. Who are not machines, who are not dirty, who are not evil, who are not always confident, not born to be a seductress, who are not meant to feel odd or guilty for existing. You cannot shut your eyes and shy away from the truth.
Make room, make room for me. For whoever has made me like this it doesn't matter, as long as you can move away from the bed and make some room for me in your mind.
Experience only sedates you to the extent that it doesn't feel like you're dying. Anymore.
I still feel shy, peeling off the garb of honour and stripping myself in front of absolute strangers. Standing naked. Stark naked.
It's like letting strangers walk into your home and have them go through your pictures, try on your clothes, raid your fridge or read your letters. And while they are busy encroaching every single square inch of "your" sanctuary, all you can do is pass that photo album to them.
Deep inside it is tearing you down. Ripping each part of your body, one by one in a gruesome fashion.
It doesn't work like the movies. No one ever falls in love with us. No one finds us beautiful longer than the hours paid for. Nobody acknowledges us, nobody spares a stare.
We are living, breathing machines who are everything but human in the view of the world. There is no room for our feelings, our dignity. There is no room for us.
More often than not the make-up on my skin is less meant to attract you and more meant for me to hide. Hide under layers and layers of powder and glitter. It eases the pain, really.
But why should my profession create a crater on my character? I didn't compose the music of my life. I didn't realise when i slipped a word or jumped a note. I don't know what made my song a cacophony. Honestly I really don't remember what happened.
But you must know that everyday I am wishing, hoping to be that girl in your home. The one who went to school, the one who argued for permissions, the one who had friends come over, the one who is allowed to fall in love, the one who still gets scolded, the one who is loved.
I don't need your sympathy, just a bit of accommodation. Some room for people like me who exist for real. Who are not machines, who are not dirty, who are not evil, who are not always confident, not born to be a seductress, who are not meant to feel odd or guilty for existing. You cannot shut your eyes and shy away from the truth.
Make room, make room for me. For whoever has made me like this it doesn't matter, as long as you can move away from the bed and make some room for me in your mind.
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