I base my love on whether or not you live from your bones.
I cry heartbreak over people filled with longing too big for their bodies, too large to capture in any material form of art. The human body is art. The body shuddering, reeling, sobbing. Overwhelmed. Silent screams and chokes. Emotion that seeps from the marrow of our bones and leaks onto pillows we’ve punched and balled and curled tightly around.
I want to feel your ache. Show me from your body—your wretched gut—why you live.
I don’t know how to write the emotions of your body. Today we settled on “amazing” as the catch-all since we were far too high on each other to maintain a decent vocabulary.
I want to touch you. Whenever I see you I need my hands on your skin. Brush across your chest, that instant shudder. You’re one of the most comfortable people I’ve ever met. Our bodies form together, soft and calm. I’m more relaxed with you than I’ve been with anyone in a long while.
Days cease and time runs quickly. Your wild eyes desperate to lock with mine. You do not wear your heart on your sleeve but release it from your mouth in gasps and howls. You are spoiling me with your body.
[Cyclemonster] asked me how I differentiate between people I date and friends who are my family who I also fuck. The only difference I can tell is while I love you all dearly and the love for someone I date is no different than the love I have for my cuddlefuck family, I only date the people I fall in love with. But this idea, so queer and without societal example, leaves me scared (for very silly reasons aligned with mainstream ideas of relationships) of losing people because they don’t have a reason to stay if I don’t date them. Which isn’t true, it’s not true at all. But I’m afraid.
Because I love you, I love you so much. I know you aren’t someone I’d fall in love with but you are my best friend and I love you more than anything. Why does that sound like second place when it’s not at all how I mean it? I haven’t cried this hard since right after I left Boston. I know everything evolves and people wane and wax, but is it too much to want to cling to what I have right now?
— Me in a letter to Storyslut, September 23, 2012.
Do you ever wake only to wonder which part of your life is actually the dream?
I can’t tell you I learned, can’t show you I did it better the next time, but I did. I can only know it myself, and if we ever meet again maybe we can be that much closer.
I see pieces of you wherever I go. Sometimes you’re in places, most often you’re in people. I’m behind someone with almost your hair, your style. Someone else has your name. No one has your brand of cockiness. I see you in the garden, on the green, in my bed. The song you played eight thousand times in the car comes on.
I think of you. I imagine what you might be doing. Gleefully walking to the underground. Eating eggs cooked all the way through. Babying your cat I’ve never met. Exploding someone’s world.
I smell your laundry detergent as it drifts in my window, used by someone else below. I remember your arms, our tangled legs; how perfectly we fit together.
That was once, it is not now.
—
“An Introduction” - Margaret LaFleur
I almost never travel backward. It feels like I’m sliding down an emotional cheese grater. Perhaps this speaks to my wanderlust, or why I hate petting scales backward, but I’m not sure.
…because my body can’t lie, and my body always knows the clear truth long before my mind sorts it out.
I know something’s wrong when my favourite part of the day is sleep.
I want…to burst. I want to struggle and scream and kick and cry and whine and heave, exhausted, onto your chest for comfort. I need a venue. I need the permission I don’t grant myself.
Ask for my lungs, force my blood to beat at the surface, muffle my sobs with increased pressure. Increase the pressure. Push, push, push, push me toward drowning in the reservoir I’ve damned myself in. I won’t drown, I tied floaties to my feet when I was young and their watertight seal-toothed ferocity has only thickened with age. Only I can drown myself, and I have, slowly, to this point of heaving through indistinguishable muck. May I have help, please, in digging out the sediment? The sentiments?
I crave the physical manifestation of what I put on myself. You need only tip the first domino for me to crack the dam. But please, if you can, catch me.
(Source: smutglitz)
Queerzz! Are you ever mis-aged? Do people approach you as if you truly are that 12 year old we joke about?
I’ve found queers and people close to the queer community (and anyone who has any sort of conversation with me) age me 5ish years older, but many many strangers ask me where my parents are as soon as I open the door. It bothers me more than being misgendered, and I’m not sure why.
I want to know if other people experience this. If so, who mis-ages you? In which direction? Do you care?
