Segments of satsumas in your hand and bodies blinking in and out of existence in some club in some town on the outskirts of nowhere. There’s flesh that stinks and sticks at the back of your throat, and there’s a burning sensation in your stomach that feels orange and red with every shot of whatever you knock back. The flames tickle and pinch, and although it’s unpleasant, you do nothing to alleviate your distress, because you’re drunk and tomorrow will never come, and that’s all you desire. Until tomorrow predictably appears, that is, and you end up spending the day in bed wishing you were dead while attempting to touch yourself even though you so desperately need the aspirin which is somewhere downstairs. But downstairs is too far away, so you stay put and suffer like the artist you are. There’s a memory of a girl who was maybe a cousin but not quite, and she’s dancing in a garden full of apple trees and rhubarb wearing a black dress. There’s lace in it, and her cheeks are red, as red as the apples that hang out of reach by mere inches even though she’s standing on tiptoes resembling a ballerina. She’s a brunette, and when you close your eyes, you see her as being the one that came before all the others. In a dusty bedroom with the curtains closed, she laid herself down upon the mattress and invited you to kiss her. So clumsy and fumbly as you moved on top of her, your lips met hers, and your hands searched for what you were sure existed but had no proof. You still remember what she felt like, and how even though she was so scared, she made you touch her there because she wanted to feel like a woman. Those eyebrows, how bushy they felt beneath your tongue. How soft her flesh even though her adolescent frame was so stiff. You asked if she wanted you to leave, but again, she told you to stay. She made you obey even though your fingers were shaking as they lifted up her dress. Those eyes, how they watched you so intently. And those lips, so red like her cheeks and the apples outside the window that blew in the breeze of that autumn afternoon.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.co.uk

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.com

19 replies »

  1. “But downstairs is too far away, so you stay put and suffer like the artist you are.”
    I wrote this line on a sticky note and put it on the wall as a reminder that it’s ok to be myself. I’m glad you shared it. ๐Ÿ™‚

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