There is something barbaric in the way his speech cuts me. There is something wild and frenzied in that throaty call, the taste of a man calling out into the blackness. All I hear is my hormones pounding and my lips pursing out into the cosmos.
(more) Love me, I think. Love my body and grab my ass. Kiss me crazy. Pull my pants down and fuck me like you love me and like you hate me and like we are a man and a woman out in the woods, alone and alive and dying to be inside each other.
There is so much in me afraid of the primal. So many levels and versions of logic that penetrate deeper then the body and tell me to out-think, out-talk, out-run this primal lust that strips me to the core and tells me: love me, own me, consume me like I am yours, all yours.
There is something in my female DNA that is calling out for you, estrogen screaming lustful screeches, begging to be filled up, screaming to be consumed and contorted and animal with you for even just a moment.
Break me free of my endless thoughts. I wear my pretty dresses and I speak of equality like every good feminist and yet...this ugly part of me needs you to bend me over and be a man and let me be a woman. I want to be delicate. I want to be consumed. I want to arouse in you a lust that drives you fucking wild--beyond sanity, beyond logic, beyond any words or thoughts and can only exist in our two bodies melting into one.
So fuck me baby. Fuck me for today and tomorrow and silence the social animal in me for once, make me feel like a woman. (less)
I feel something barbaric in the wide, sweeping gestures of putting those thick black lines on paper. India ink penetrates the pulp, the paper puckering in protest. A clean white surface now marred with angry lines of black- one after another, after another.
(more) My bamboo brush acts as a weapon, a sword, as it slashes left to right then bottom to top, the lines growing thinner, almost delicate, as my arm rises. And afterwards, the ink drips from my brush to fall between the lines, on top of them- melting and merging and drying into art or cheap therapy. (less)
It was barbaric. But they were all doing it.
It filled us with fear but we were afraid of quitting.
We were just children but we wanted to grow up
We were convinced it was the cool thing to do
We never though more cause it was what w(more)e knew
It was barbaric but it needed to be done.