** DISCLAIMER. A few weeks ago I was on Vicadin because of the cellulitis in my hand. I had written this on a groggy evening, post ER visit.
Thoughts coming like a flood. I can hear every level of sound. The telly, the music from
the kitchen, the conversations, Nam singing, the sound of the thoughts in my head
rushing loud like a river by my ears.
I’m in bed. I opened the window so there is a steady stream of cool air. It covers me
across the stretch of my stomach and thighs. The cold heavy air. At time there is a wind,
that picks up my sheer cotton nightgown to hover above my goose prickled skin. I feel
as though I’m at the helm of a ship with the rain and waves crashing into me. I close my
eyes and I’m there.
There is something to say about altering the regular function of your brain. It makes you think weird thoughts, it allows me to experience each sense more completely. To feel every tiny sensation, every cellular motion of my nipple stiffening against the cold. Feel it harden, tighten beneath the palm of a winter wind.
I feel each sensation, touch, smell, sight, sound and taste. I eat food like I’ve never
tasted anything like it before. Strawberry ice cream. The tingling sour of the strawberry
and the tiny ice molecules melting against my tongue.The pink blush of the ice cream
hinting my cheeks with colour, adding a sparkle in my eye.
There is something special about expressing oneself at a time like this. Hearing, tasting
feeling every word as it forms into a sentence. The bitterness of condescention and the
sweet lies of flattery.
My eyes are heavy. My thoughts are heavier. So easy to sink in the cool softness of my
Queen. Queen sized bed anyway. How lovely it might be to sink into the cool softness of
a queen. Or just a girl even.
My skin is hot against the crisp cool sheets. The glow of my blood as it rushes through
me gives the off-white sheets a red sheen. Like red satin. That turns into flames and
consumes me. Like Love. That takes over the direction of every cell of every part of
my body and points me in the direction of him. Like it used to.
Fine. I admit it. May be I am lascivious tonight. (Because Lascivious sounds so much more sophisticated than horny.) But I’m lascivious for passion, for past, for words. May be for other things, but passion, past, and words can be equally satisfying.
Murderers kill for sexual release; I write.