Hands balled into fists, skin stretched white over bone, nails digging into palms as reminders the moment is real, the pain of flesh diminished in the face of the shocking black boiling inside. Undone memories, borrowed from the lives and whimsy of others, described and downplayed with indifference, yet indelible and stalking within dark stretches of fallen thought, angry heat playing at the edges of visions explained away as false joy.
Acting. Alleged submission in rooms laced with scented air and domino-toppled inhibition, fulfilling thrusts and licks, mouths filled with the heat and wet of excitement. Sighs, moans driving and rising. Hands, legs, entwined in intimate search. Release, full and quaking, voices bounding off walls in exaltation, sweat and spit mixing with the runoff of pleasure. Performance.
Nails drive harder into flesh to unsee fingers and mouths, obvious euphoria muted carefully to protect the sensitivity of the uninitiated. Yet skin holds tough, unbreakable as these haunted admissions, no blood to purge the hurt and run scarlet down wrists, pumped from a heart spoiled by the thick black of hate. Pulse pounded tar screams in frail veins, razors tearing from within at lungs and chest, the broken neck and throat of the undeserving labeled lucky, right, better for never exploring, never stepping behind curtains to uncover where light ends and the filth of desire collects as foam on surreptitious shorelines choked by knotted bodies; figures writhing wildly in the fires of their greed and emboldened worth.
Shoulders slumped, hands uncurled with long fingers straining the cold air of late days, half moons fail in the pink night of lifelines boasting passion, care, gravity and security. Clean lines, unfrayed by the confusion of deliberate steps outside the reach of the sun’s warmth, where eyes meet, excited long stares inviting the grip of strangers, the throttle of pulses quickened by offered skin, new touch and a decadent stray from norms.
The deviation condemned, regretful eyes round in soft but unnecessary apology, professing thanks for the quiet earnestness of synchronous hearts. Nods of understanding. Nods pulled by threads of reassurance. Nods of acceptance and conciliation. Nods of agreement. And not a single one untainted by bitter reproach – not for the performer or the polished blur of confession – but for the inability to step onto the stage, pull back the curtain, sink teeth into the meat of life and tear from it the fat and sinew of curried wonder, a flood of sensation for tongue, flesh and sex.
Discounted by the experienced, the unfamiliar is told to sit in the quiet order of carefully made beds, and accept applause for purity and strength. Forever stained by inaction, blood like ink, sitting and wading in the history of others and their knowing, just sit. Accept. It’s better to not know. It’s so much easier to stay home say those that have travelled the world. After all, they always come home.
Yet didn’t they travel. Didn’t they see it all.
