they say
to get someone into bed
is not a simple task

but the harder task
is to undress someone
one layer at a time
get deep within their skin
cutting off their protection
knowing them fully
so that you
have changed their lives

it's far easier to be ****
than it is
to be vulnerable.

i could take off your shirt
or know what makes your blood boil
i could enter into you
or have my voice haunt your thoughts
i could invade private places
or the spaces you desperately hide

i could make you laugh
or make you cry

your body is rather finite
i'd rather infiltrate your mind
so that our insides translate the same
despite coming from different origins

a kiss on the mouth
or a enrapturing of the heart
that beats harder for love
than it does lust

have fun in daze onto the dusk
or contemplate what will become of us

they say
it's fun to ****

i'd rather love
and try my luck.

imagine that you live in a world where, until you reach the age of sixteen, the food orzo is forbidden.

you've heard about orzo. how could you not? it's everywhere, because it seems like everybody loves orzo. orzo this, orzo that. for your whole life, you've heard about the glory of orzo. most people you know can't wait to try it. they talk about it all the time.

you, though, you've never had the overwhelming urge to eat orzo, not like it seems your peers do. still, you go along with it, because everybody else loves orzo and can't wait to try it.

eventually, you ask your dad whether he's always liked orzo. "yes," he says, "of course. you might not like it now, but you'll love it when you're older." he then shows you how to make orzo, even though you're not at all curious.

your peers have begun to try orzo. they all give glowing reviews. but despite their enthusiasm, it still seems kind of odd to you. why is everyone so worked up over orzo? what makes it so great?

life goes on. maybe you tried orzo. maybe you didn't. either way, you've decided it's not your thing. the only problem? no one else gets it. they all say, "what do you mean you don't like orzo? everybody likes orzo. maybe you just haven't found the right recipe yet." but you know that you don't like orzo. you probably never will. and everyone else thinks you strange for this.

this is what it's like to be asexual in this environment.

If I could manage to swallow
that growing sense of dread between my
shivering, pale lips, then it would
be much easier to take the lead.

Would I be free of emotional instabilities
the moment my boxers slipped to the floor?
Is that how this works? Where do my hands
even go in the first place?

If I could make my eyes flicker closed
as you lean in to steal my breaths by
means of unwelcome inquiry, perhaps
my heart would cease lamenting.

I could probably say all I wanted in the matter
and plead my case, but when society's the prosecutor,
chances are my legs would be required to stay
open 24/7, like a convenience store.

I'm sorry. I can't fix this, it's not something to be
fixed. I've failed as a basic human and cannot function
without regrets and anger. Besides, there are nicer
sorts around. Find them instead.

Remove your hands from my chest, your mouth from
my mottled shoulder. This is a convenience store that
never opens.

I did not know I was Asexual.
I did not think I was anything.
Maybe I thought I was out of place with the world.
Maybe I thought I was out of rhythm with the world.
Now I know, and now I've told you.
I guess I am nothing to you,
because that was enough to make you leave.
I can't say I am happy you left,
but at least I know you aren't the one for me.
Maybe you will never come back.
Maybe you will try to make small talk with me.
Maybe I am just fine with the outcome.

All the worst things in life
Start with a:
A-social
A-theist
A-******.
A-bominations to be corrected, but,
And although, in the hands of a body
The blame must go
Tight-gripped and freely clasped
A smile hangs like a necklace.
For, they ask, what grows,
On what shore that glance a thirsting road
Where no artisan of wells
Lets run his craft
Burst with life?
What vines may couple, transect dead veins
Still in a bed of salt
But dead and grey shades of the true?
None,
It would seem, can carry the sweet
Of fertile seeds along the water’s edge
It is but passing as its plumpness
Withers and drops
Apart, epistle, a dogma.
This vampiric little heart takes no form
In Narcissus’ pool it does not
Glisten in the waters calm
Despite the furious mouth
And, gone, lost of all that made it whole.
I go back to the source of the
Grey valley flume
Unknown to impetus,
Cannot find its way in the endless roads
And paths in the sun-baked skin,
The wind may blow salt in my eyes though
The music of its basin fills my ears:
Waves breaking and pressing
On soft earthen lines, scrap-book memories
Faded at the edges like Polaroids
Unfold from the waves of purity
In the sand of an empty shore.
I peer idly into the glimmering stream
No red heart beating,
But a grey heart; one simply searching, pining
For a grey love to begin
And the world that I know
They belong in.

I'm not attracted to people. Never have, never will. See I might get aroused; it's like my body is rejecting my decision it doesn't care it acts on it's own, but I'm fine with platonic relations. We don't gotta touch just cuddle and kiss and I'd be more than fine, but I'm a pleaser so ill subject myself to such acts, In accordance to their needs.
*** doesn't come to mind when out on dates unless it's been made clear that ****** activity will be in place. When *** comes to mind all I can think is "*** ugh no" The only ******* in my life comes from my partners needs. I'm their bf I'm supposed to cater to them. I don't mind it but I also don't like it.