Do you know what you do to me?
Quiet fury, hauntingly close.
Every time you say that word, you leave an imprint,
a naked brand scarring my skin.
Raised, sore, bleeding on to my hands.
Soon I’ll be covered in welts,
because I can’t always agree to your demands.
Frigid.
Why so frigid?
You are now my disease.
I carry you wrapped in bed sheets inside;
nestled deep inside;
you course through my bloodstream,
hot, boiling my blood;
Sending flushes of sweat flooding my skin,
as you try again to reach for something that’s not yours.
Waves of infection that I wait to succumb to, every time we
feel the need to be intimate, to have a semblance of normality,
when I know I’m not even close to sharing myself with you.
You’re not…affectionate, are you?
You barely do anything, you leave it all up to me to love you,
just do something in return, start something would you?
Do you even realise your foul play?
I can’t help but carry your marks and bare them for
each new soul that steps towards me,
lovingly, until they know what I seem incapable of.
I do love you.
I do want you.
But please realise the scars and wounds and battle remnants I harbour;
bruises that don’t disappear, stitches that don’t disappear, tender spots
and pain that doesn’t
disappear as you try and ****** your way in.
You can’t be a cure.
Stop. You are just so cold.
Are we ever going to be together if you can’t do this for me?
You roll over in bed.
I can feel the heavy burden of disappointment.
Your chilly reception of my arms
resting on your chest.
Almost like I’m the one causing you suffering. My touch gives you
flinches,
subtle twists of your body away from mine.
I feel so horribly naked before you. It isn’t pleasant anymore.
It isn’t beautiful anymore.
I do all this for you, I lie down at your feet
and surrender myself to this icy blizzard because
I’m trying to make you happy.
I’m trying to keep you satisfied. It’s always been the battle I rage with
myself,
warring and violent punishments when I fail to keep you here,
tucked beside me,
warm and safe beside me.
I’m so sorry there are times
I can’t show you just how much I need you here.
I’m not stoic; I flail and drown all on my own, without you,
Without your fecund roots to keep me grounded.
Without your whispers and nips and possession.
Without your lips on mine, without your push and pull;
Without your refuge I seek, to escape myself.
But don’t you ever name-call again.
Don’t you ever make me close up inside again.
Don’t make me retract my limbs and curl,
fold and bend down, into myself, because you are hurt.
Don’t you ever think I don’t feel, don’t think I don’t need pleasure as you
do.
Don’t ever think you always provide it the way
I need you to.
I’m the one who cries at night, howling at the things I still don’t
achieve for you.
I’m the one who feels that I don’t support your weight as you
do for mine.
I’m the one who drifts into sad reveries of the time to come;
The time I know will come when you flee and run from
my outstretched arms.
Frigid.
Frigid.
Get out. This will never be ok.
Stop sending that word ripping underneath
my skin. Don’t impale me on such a lie.
It’s tender. I can be so gentle but you only remind me
of brutality; dominating my strength so I don’t
know it’s there.
How is that right for you to say to me?
Do you know what you do to me?
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 4:42 AM UTC
Do you know what you do to me?
Quiet fury, hauntingly close.
Every time you say that word, you leave an imprint,
a naked brand scarring my skin.
Raised, sore, bleeding on to my hands.
Soon I’ll be covered in welts,
because I can’t always agree to your demands.
Frigid.
Why so frigid?
You are now my disease.
I carry you wrapped in bed sheets inside;
nestled deep inside;
you course through my bloodstream,
hot, boiling my blood;
Sending flushes of sweat flooding my skin,
as you try again to reach for something that’s not yours.
Waves of infection that I wait to succumb to, every time we
feel the need to be intimate, to have a semblance of normality,
when I know I’m not even close to sharing myself with you.
You’re not…affectionate, are you?
You barely do anything, you leave it all up to me to love you,
just do something in return, start something would you?
Do you even realise your foul play?
I can’t help but carry your marks and bare them for
each new soul that steps towards me,
lovingly, until they know what I seem incapable of.
I do love you.
I do want you.
But please realise the scars and wounds and battle remnants I harbour;
bruises that don’t disappear, stitches that don’t disappear, tender spots
and pain that doesn’t
disappear as you try and ****** your way in.
You can’t be a cure.
Stop. You are just so cold.
Are we ever going to be together if you can’t do this for me?
You roll over in bed.
I can feel the heavy burden of disappointment.
Your chilly reception of my arms
resting on your chest.
Almost like I’m the one causing you suffering. My touch gives you
flinches,
subtle twists of your body away from mine.
I feel so horribly naked before you. It isn’t pleasant anymore.
It isn’t beautiful anymore.
I do all this for you, I lie down at your feet
and surrender myself to this icy blizzard because
I’m trying to make you happy.
I’m trying to keep you satisfied. It’s always been the battle I rage with
myself,
warring and violent punishments when I fail to keep you here,
tucked beside me,
warm and safe beside me.
I’m so sorry there are times
I can’t show you just how much I need you here.
I’m not stoic; I flail and drown all on my own, without you,
Without your fecund roots to keep me grounded.
Without your whispers and nips and possession.
Without your lips on mine, without your push and pull;
Without your refuge I seek, to escape myself.
But don’t you ever name-call again.
Don’t you ever make me close up inside again.
Don’t make me retract my limbs and curl,
fold and bend down, into myself, because you are hurt.
Don’t you ever think I don’t feel, don’t think I don’t need pleasure as you
do.
Don’t ever think you always provide it the way
I need you to.
I’m the one who cries at night, howling at the things I still don’t
achieve for you.
I’m the one who feels that I don’t support your weight as you
do for mine.
I’m the one who drifts into sad reveries of the time to come;
The time I know will come when you flee and run from
my outstretched arms.
Frigid.
Frigid.
Get out. This will never be ok.
Stop sending that word ripping underneath
my skin. Don’t impale me on such a lie.
It’s tender. I can be so gentle but you only remind me
of brutality; dominating my strength so I don’t
know it’s there.
How is that right for you to say to me?
Do you know what you do to me?
