About that night…

“Fuck this shit”, I said as I stormed out of his focus. I was tired of fighting a battle when he was the least bit rattled. I yearned for intimacy, he didn’t. Ah! The despair, when two humans are dancing on a different rhythm. I reached home, threw stuff around, screamed and yelled, hurled abuses, argued, all things that remained unsaid. Until, until the mirror called out. I looked at self, a few gains, a few lines of pain. The clouds that night were as agitated as I was. It roared and it struck at the earth, and it poured. I couldn’t see my reflection anymore. So, I walked out and joined the clouds, looking down several floors below. The raindrops hit the edges of my skin. The first touch in a long time and so ethereal, surreal. I undid the knots one by one until the rain touched every wild part of my raw self.

Fingers slid down from my lips as a guide to the droplets, to explore a barren land. Barren yet so fertile. Where no man’s been in a while. Leaning against the wet walls of my home. Staring at a million lights that lit up as if a vertical blanket of stars. Maybe I had an audience, maybe I didn’t. I dreamed of that evening, multiple times, nightmares I called it. Maybe they weren’t. Fingers touched the tip of my bosom, “angelic” a boy had once exclaimed. I touched them, as if it was my first, as if I dreamed of this since forever.

While one hand cupped my own feminine self, other side slid through the stomach. Through the imaginary abs and pressures of the social and fit of the fabric way-way low, down below, to my perceived character, my identity and something that charted the course of history. Soft and supple and raw. Painters got us right, but rarely the photographers. The shame and the pride. The pause and the ride. The adrenaline rushed as a high tide – as I made my way inside.

Oh, how I lied, when I told him “I like you inside, of me”, I didn’t, not a bit. It was all a fake cry. All I liked is me, all I loved was me and in that moment, all I had the lust for was me. I was dominant and I was the passive. I was the Empress and I the servant. I was on top and the bottom. Fingers slid in one after another until I could take no more. In and out, in subtle pauses with the intensity of rain that lashed a drought seen land.

Sweat trickled down my face along with raindrops, salt, and self. As my fingers, rushed in and out in waves, I went weak in my knees. Fell on the floor, hit my head on the door, laughed a bit, let out a scream. Out of my own self, the color of my strands flowed down with the water. I screamed and gasped until after longest time I learned how to love myself.

No “are you done”, no “not yet?”. It was only me and I. Oh how beautiful, no pressure, no performance. Just a real, raw emotion. Finally, when tears joined the waters that already were, I was over and done. Lying on the floor, shivering and trembling, bent knees, I closed my eyes. For one long peaceful night.