Deeper churning
the water rolling over and over
its primal call.
I can still smell
clinging to my skin and hair
its echo there.
A wash of blood
which spills briny over thighs
that I do not feel-
the undercutting sand
leaving its memory
of where his hands once took liberties.
On the shore
where the wood is warped and damp
it still feels like him.
An ocean dream
not the same anymore
as the ocean dreams
I had before.
Ever Virgin.
I try to hold onto the moments when I feel absolutely secure.
When I know that I am an important, rich, beautiful, colorful human being worthy of attention and love.
I try to hold too, to the moments that spear me open with pain and crush the cockles that line the sandy shores of the inside of me.
I try to make a balance of pain and joy, to remember the smooth and buttery flavor of pleasure and the vinegar-sour pulse of a heartache.
All day I silently recite proverbs and poems, French curses and love songs, bible passages and poignant lyrics from songs, hoping to find some way to connect the hot river of words on the inside to the solitary beauty of the outside around me.
When I fall asleep at night I comb through the long and silky strands of my memory and tease out the tiny moments when it didn’t hurt to breathe, swaddle myself in the almost imagined thoughts of smiles and casual touches, create a thick cushion of possession to curl up on, gently easing me to sleep- and if there isn’t enough- if I cannot picture enough touches or smiles or moments of love to build my nightly bed, then I slip further into myself to some fantasy I’ve constructed for the occasion where I can simulate the feeling of being cared about and treasured by those unnamed and unfaced, until numbness takes me over and I sleep just the same.
Where are they?
The small but bosom kith to surround me, take me in, and tell me, yes, you are loved.
Yes, you are loved.
Yes, you.
Loved.
Ever Virgin.
