Fourteen years seems
like a long time
when you haven’t lived very long.
And it is.

But more than that,
It’s a long time,
Not to tell someone that they have you.

Yes,
Have,
But no,
Not own,
Like a car or a house,
Just have,
Because have means that it’s there,
But you don’t necessarily possess it.
But even though it’s just “to have”,
Fourteen years is a bit long to be so very “haved”
Without telling someone that they have you.

I know it’s not a word,
At least not in this context,
But most people can relate,
I think,
To the feeling of being haved.
The feeling of being tied,
As a Bronte once said,
Inextricably,
From under one’s left rib,
To a similar place in another’s frame.
The feeling of knowing that if I’m ever to sacrifice myself to the eternal flames of matrimony,
It would only be for him.

And he’ll never know,
Of course,
Unless I tell him,
That he had me on the first day of school,
A new district, a new life,
Confused and concerned,
Scared of the newness,
And all of the sudden there he was,
Wearing lopsided glasses and a lopsided grin,
Perpetually wrinkled clothes from running wild,
And me,
Nose in a book,
Incapable of noticing him had it not been for that impossible, infectious laugh.

He had me,
When he grinned and offered friendship,
Something I was unfamiliar with,
And he’s had me every day since,
Even after the turmoil of childhood,
Deaths and epiphanies,
An engagement ring,
And numerous loveless nights,
He still has me.

I’ve been “haved” from the moment we met.
Haved by the way he says my name,
Haved by the dopamine that floods my veins every time he’s near,
Haved by the silliness that returns me to grade school,
Third grade,
Playground dust on the palms of my hands,
Tossing rocks to him under a mesquite tree,
And here I am,
Already a woman,
Yearning to be a mother,
A matriarch,
Something more,
Something solid,
And yet I’m still haved by him in every way but one-
I don’t have him back.
He’s haved by everyone but me.
Dedicated to anything and everyone that happens to have him at that time,
But no matter what I do,
No matter how hard I try,
I’ll never have him
As much as he has me.

Je suis littérature,
Mais en français.
Je suis les mots écrits,
Mais en français.
Je suis art de la langue
Mais en français.
Je suis comme le français;
Fait d'esthétique,
Sans signification.

We lament,
systematically,
our woes,
our naked ring fingers,
and our cold mattresses,
we indulge in our vices
justifying the gluttony
with broken hearts.
My comrades and I
we bond over the futility of love,
the battle that is romance,
and in coming together,
we make one another strong,
condemning the ignorant male swill for their lust,
their objectifying ways,
their Godless, scheming hearts
that leave no room for us,
and we bemoan
vigorously,
the fault that keeps a man from binding himself to a woman
indefinitely.
But the truth is...
I love it.
I smile inwardly as I spin lies that keep me in my cups without question,
and at home in peace without argument.
I nod in affirmation as my acquiantances curse the carnal seed that brought man forth,
but the truth is,
I love it.
Primal nature
is far more satisfying to me
than the boring, blustering outsides
of a man with no personality.
The tedious conversation required by polite society,
and the obligation to know him,
no matter how Nothing he may be...
The truth is,
I would rather create an adventure,
something to truly stimulate my senses,
something to rouse the animal in me,
as opposed to tranquilizing my *****.
The truth is,
when a man releases me from his embrace,
a rush of endorphins thrusts me into the streets,
and I fly through the night like Margarita on her broomstick,
wild and unfettered,
pink-cheeked and laughing,
naked and free...
the truth is,
there's a thrill,
in taking a man,
giving him what he thinks he wants,
taking what you need,
and ending with the drop of a guillotine,
and the blade never dulls,
the game never loses its charm,
and the truth is,
I never tire of it.

Let's play pretend,
like two kids in grown up clothes,
saying grown up words,
in our grown up voices.
Let's play pretend,
the way we did when we were kids,
and we'd say the things
we think we're supposed to say to sound
grown up,
adult and mature,
not small enough,
vulnerable enough,
to get hurt.
Let's fake it like it won't be painful
when we go on our way
and finish our busy,
big kid schedule.
Feelings get hurt just as easily as they did
back when they accompanied skinned knees
and tree houses.
Just because we tell ourselves what to do now
doesn't mean we tell ourselves right,
just because we can say how we feel now,
doesn't mean we say it then,
and just because we don't get in trouble for the truth now,
doesn't mean we don't play pretend.

Under the cover of night,
A savagery blossoms in everyone,
Thriving in the privacy of darkened corners
And behind locked doors.
Inhibitions are lost,
And veils removed,
And the arching,
Writhing,
Wild things emerge.
There is one exception,
A predator that sinks into the shadows
And observes.
One who calculates every movement,
And plans,
Meticulously,
How to create the perfect night.
As the moon inches closer to the horizon,
And the purple of the dawn
Begins to rise,
The predator manipulates her prey into the necessary positions,
Guiding them into the right movements,
To say the right things,
Punishing,
And rewarding,
For following her rules.
“Sometimes I wish that I were like the other
Animaux de noir
So that I could release myself,
Instead of cinch
And draw in
Defensively.
But meticulousness is all I know
And to design
Carefully
Methodically
Does not keep one warm.
I must plot every second,
Every reaction,
And list the rules for my prey.
Take away their sight
Their speech
Their movement,
And once they know the isolation of the sensation of touch
Without control,
Without authority,
They may earn them back,
One by one,
Until they can give me a definitive answer.
What is it that you want?
What do you need the most?
What do you want to do first?
And what will you do last?
Predictably,
They plead to give me what I already knew they would give,
To do the things that all before them have done,
Because they are puppets,
They’re easy,
They’re all ****** to be the same,
And I,
Night after night,
Will remain
Just as meticulous.”

In the folds of romance,
Lingering too long,
You made a passtime
Of treating me wrong,
Returning endearments,
With apathetic remarks,
Exchanging devotion
With inconsistent sparks,
But I clung to you fiercely,
And gave you acquittal,
I felt far too much,
But at least I said little.

The drive is scheduled,
how I work,
when I work,
who I work for.
The destination is scheduled,
when I get there,
how long it takes,
why I go,
what keeps me there until
what time.
It is all a matter of a predetermined schedule that
in the end
is not about me.
And yet it is my time that is being spent.
Every aspect of my
"free"
and "independent" being
is secured tightly to a slowly sinking ship by miles and miles of red tape,
layered thickly around me.
It is an artificial creation,
arbitrary,
and yet completely outside of my control.
Removing it's meaning
does not release me from it's binding,
just as senseless ******,
is still ******.
So as I sit in the driver's seat,
a passenger in my own life,
I roll down the window,
and extend one hand,
allowing the brisk air and bracing wind to sting me
relentlessly,
lifting me,
and I imagine the wind picking me up and taking me somewhere else,
if only to have the mask of authority removed,
and truly capitulate.
More than anything,
I reach out for something so shockingly cold
with such a great force
simply to feel something.