All too often, I feel emotion overwhelm inside me, my eyes filling to the brim with tears, and all I can do is write. I long to release my tears in the way I release my words. Even more so, I long to release my pain. These moments in time, these unspeakable, earth-shattering moments, replay their haunting film in my head. I try to step into the frame, to remake what was originally produced, but there's no way of changing anything. I wonder why writing doesn't work. Why you can't just express every last bit of how you are feeling and then it gets better. Or why you can't just write down what happened. No, instead I wander in my incoherent thoughts about writing and emotion and how I think I'm supposed to feel. Maybe I don't want to feel. Maybe all I've ever wanted is to not feel.
I place my hand on his chest. The steady rhythm of his heart becomes my reality as everything else fades into the background. I clench onto his shirt. I want more. My breath slows and I inhale deeper while I lean in to kiss him. The moment my lips touch his my body goes into shock. An immediate sense of lust consumes me. I ask him to take me, to make me his. I shudder when I feel him. I don't know if that's because I am happy or disgusted. All I know is that this is now, not then, but somehow it still feels familiar. But I've never done this before. Not really.
If I was selfish enough, I'd tell more people about the severity of my disturbed mind. That I can't have one day where something societally "unusual" and "unacceptable" does not enter my thoughts. I don't want anyone to think I'm a freak. I don't want any of those people I try so hard to keep around to think that I am not worth it. I'm not crazy, I promise anyone that.
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