On Storytelling

 

I want you to tell me a story.

I’m not sure if it needs to be true, or fabricated, or long, or short.

But I want you to tell me a story.

I want you to tell me a story that transports me, that focuses my mind on the characters and the places, on their emotions and their motivations, on what might be coming next.

I want you to bury your head into my hair, kiss up my jaw, as you tell a part that’s particularly enthralling.

I want you to trace patterns with your fingers, and tease me that I’m not focusing on your words.

I want it told in completion, from beginning to end, even if it’s a fantastical fairy tale with a ‘happily ever after’ at the end that you know will make me pull faces and mime gagging.



Because right now I’m being told bits and pieces, with holes and inconsistencies, and I hate every second of it.

The truth will suck. For you, admitting it will be so difficult. But, it needs to happen, doesn’t it?

I need to know. I need to know what is happening in its entirety.

I don’t know how to ask this, I don’t know how to call you out on this.


I’ve asked you questions you don’t want to answer, or answer in full. And you’re so far away I can’t do much when you don’t.

You’ve put me between people, used me as a buffer. I know this and don’t know this. I know things and don’t know things. My head is a swirling mess.


I needed one last thing from you, and I’ve asked for it, and now there’s really nothing left to tie me to you. So now, I could say That’s me done.

I think I need to be done.
I don’t know if that’s fair, or not.

I need this horrible feeling to be gone – of not knowing, of being pulled in the middle, of not understanding, and not having a claim to demand understanding.

Give me peace. Give me answers. Give me something.

I can’t give you my attention. Every moment you get from me takes away from something else, something else that needs my focus so much more.

 

I’m so, so tired. And I want to be free of this.

 

So I’ll tell you the story of how two people drove along a highway, in the sunshine, under a bright blue sky.

On Words

(Special thank you to the friend mentioned in On Dirty Minds for helping in the editing of this.) 

The alphabet will affect me far more than kisses and bites and fingers ever will.

Or is it the tongue that wraps around the letters, that forms sentences that travel through me, making my mind turn to mush, melting me into a puddle that no longer wishes to move, to think, to feel anything but that person wrapped around me.

Or is it the timing, things said as I’m already floating up in space, words that send me higher, which feel like a jolt of electricity down my spine, sending shivers straight through to my toes.

Or is it the person themselves, that have read each reaction so carefully, that have cracked through exterior walls, that understand which things will have more of an effect than their body ever could, or make me more than willing to accept what their body could offer.

There are times I crave the silence. Because some people need to stay silent so I can fly above the atmosphere, so I can be somewhere else in that moment, or get through the moment, and then come back to be present with the person beside me.

Sometimes silence is our language, growls and sighs whispered in ears, and it’s more than enough. It can be positive, negative, or neutral. In whatever case, human language is unnecessary.

But there are those that have understood the power of words, in the most intricate of manners.

That can ruin with a sentence.
Melt with a whisper.
Destroy sanity with syllables.

And I can only reply with a yes, no, or sigh. I will paint landscapes with a mouth that never utters a sound, but I will come undone under the power of words.

But only for those who know how to properly wield this power.

On The Bad Stuff

I’ve been running into this problem lately, of only remembering those stupid ass moments.

When I fucked up.

When I got too drunk.

When I said something stupid.

When you had to deal with my incompetence and idiocy.

And I don’t want to only remember these moments, because for one, it makes it sound like you’re perfect, and no one is, and two, I want to remember the other moments.

When we lay on your couch doing nothing all day.

When I made your coffee in the morning, and wafted the scent towards your nose to breathe life into you.

When you put your hand on my knee.

When you made me talk about things without a hint of uncomfortability, pushing past my layers of shyness, so you knew exactly how to to pull me to you, hands around my wrists, holding me steady as your tongue made earthquakes travel through my spine.

 

I want to hold on to you as a whole. I want to be able to look you in the eyes, and know that we are on equal ground. I want to know that one day you will crush me into a hug again and I will not dwell on this, that, or the other but only on that moment, on your arms and skin and feel of you around me.

I never expected to feel an intensity with you, and you still don’t know all of these feelings rattling around in my head. Because when we talk it’s about something related to a previous conversation. It’s me sending you a TV show release date. It’s not us talking about the intricate details of our lives, our thoughts, our feelings. It’s not those kinds of conversations anymore.

Maybe it’s just the unsettled-ness of my life right now, but it’s so easy to dwell on the negative, to focus on my faults and my derp moments, that which makes my brain say – well you had fun, but do you really expect them to stick around when you’re such a dumbass?

But I know this isn’t fair, or true. People come in and out or your life for such a variety of reasons. Maybe you’ve got a blog somewhere writing about the depths of my ineptitude, but I don’t think so. (Others on here, maybe. But not you.)

 

You sent me three words the other day, and it helped far more than you know.

 

I miss you, too.

 

On Leicester Square

2015-10-14-tgag_614_feminist

Headphones in ears, giant fuckoff bag beside me, and a book open in my lap – all the telltale signs of leave me the hell alone. And yet, I could feel hipster fuckboy’s eyes on me for two stops before he crossed over to sit next to me. It should be noted that my entire end of this conversation was said almost completely deadpan.

“What are you reading?” He asked brightly.

I held up the book. It was Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s We Should All Be Feminists.

“Oh, so you’re a feminist?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t until last year. I thought they were just all feminazis who hated men, but then my ex got me on it. I know it’s about equality now.” His smile still in place, nodding at his own innate genius for figuring out that 2 + 2 = 4.

“Good for you.”

“Yeah, like, we’re all equal right? Just makes sense.”

I nod, and turn back to the book.

Yes, well done for understanding that women are, indeed, equal to you, and those fighting for said equality are not the same as actual Nazis. Excuse me while I swoon over your unwashed beard and immediately drop my pants here on the train. Who said a little vibration ever hurt anyone?

“I didn’t think I should come over here, but, there was just, something about you.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Something about me?”

“Yeah, you just have that vibe about you.”

“What vibe?”

“I don’t know, but that vibe.”

I know what he’s talking about. It’s the ‘you’re different from the others’, vibe. The, ‘you’re not like other girls’, vibe. The, ‘you’re a challenge and therefore I must prove my manhood and make you want me’, vibe.

It’s the vibe that says I’m calling you on your bullshit and you don’t want me to, you’re not used to it, or you want to convince me to stop, that you’re different, you’re different than the other fuckboys.

“Maybe you’re a party girl?”

He takes stock of the eyebrows creeping up into my hairline and tries again.

“So, you’re a student?”

“Sure.”

“Can you help me?”

He doesn’t know what stop he needs to get out at. It’s with a sinking feeling in my gut I realise we’re getting out at the same station.

“So you’re like, far out of town?”

“Why do you say that?” 

“All the students have to live far away to afford to live here, so you’re far away?”

Yes I will definitely tell you where exactly to bury the body.

“What are you studying?”

“Politics.”

“Ah wow.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m just visiting here for a couple days.”

“Cool.”

“Can you guess my country?”

“Probably not.”

“Oh, come on. It’s shaped like Africa!”

Fkdajfkladsjf;lkasdjfladsf

“What?”

“It’s in Europe and shaped like Africa!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You study politics and you can’t guess that country?”

>.>

“No.”

I don’t remember the country, but it sure as fuck is not shaped like an entire continent. Side note, you reckon that was a good imperialist sentiment? Sure, we can take it over. Our country is a mini version of it. We’re *supposed* to expand there, just like God intended….

“So what are you doing now?”

“Meeting friends.”

“We should hang out.”

“No.”

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

“I have a date.”

“Ah really?”

“Yes.”

“Can I come?”

“What? No.”

“Please?”
“You want to come to come along with me to my date?”

“Just tell him I’m gay.”

Can we take another moment to consider just how many groups of people he’s insulted at this point?

“No.”

“It would be so fun.”

“No.”

We’re approaching the stop. I grab my bag and sprint out the door. He’s left with a bemused expression on his face, twirling in a circle trying to find the right exit.

I left him to his confusion. For all I know, he’s still wandering around down there.