Oceans

He envelopes me whole with one lazy hand strewn over my hip and pulls me closer to him.

I can't breathe.

He's intoxicating.

He smiles halfway to the right, like he's signalling for me to come closer.

My thoughts are rapid fire artillery

Echoing loudly through my chest.

I look into his eyes and I'm immediately and damnedly trapped within them. I can't look away. 

I can't breathe.

I'm under the ocean with you.

I'm lost within you.

A prison of my own making.

I'll remain forever.

Swallowed up by the feverish sea.

Unable to break free.

Not wanting to.

Oh, what it is to be so easily and carelessly beloved. By you, completely, all-comsumingly. So casually, you fling me over your shoulder and twirl me around until in between my fit of giggles and cries I find my feet again. Before I can register this, I'm enveloped in your arms again, caught in the fire of your volcanic body.

Oh, how easy you love me; how easy you make it seem; how easily I picture our lives. You, carelessly consuming me until there is nothing left. 

This is not love. This is a lot like love.

One balled fist lays strewn across your bare chest and I can't help but stare and imagine that fist splayed out against my own chest. I loved it there.

You choose your suffering. I choose my suffering.

They are not the same.

I look into your eyes and I see our whole potential written in the creases of your furrowed brow. But your suffering can not impact my own. We cannot drown in the sea of our own desires. 

I long to breathe.

When you took me

I blow out twenty-eight candles and it hits me 

like a text book on a table. 

Golden light from a nearby lamp.

Red.

Soft voices and low laughter

Disgust.

The same age

The same age

I grew up

I broke free

I healed

Free from your gaze

but who is still caught within those hazel eyes?

I know I wasn't unique.

I wasn't the only one.

We're in reverse now: Benjamin Buttoning

But with none of the progress.

You're an old man now.

I'm the same age you were

When you took me

I'm in the same profession you were

when you took me

I teach students the same age I was

when you met me

But you're not me

And you'll never be.

I would never be like you;

You used me.

I would never use people like you

I protect people like me.

I'm free.

Portugal

I saw a small bird face down into the dark and dangerous depths below. It bounced and swayed on the thin branch it balanced on. It looked down into the depths without fear, quietly waiting for the right moment - whatever that moment could be.

Then, without a second thought, it dove. It dove into the hole and was swallowed up by the darkness within. But then out it came once more, dipping and diving in and out of the crevice like it owned it. Like it knew all it's limitations and knew the very essence of the cave and trusted it completely. Every ebb and flow of the war below shooting inconsistent waves of air up to the surface. As if the wind was there as a gift for the bird, to aid it in its flight.

I'm sure there's a metaphor in there somewhere.

The sea painted the smoothed cliff face like veins charged with new life. The ocean feeds the cliff over and over and over.

The waves have reached their precipise, kissing the air before crashing apart once again.

The song and dance continues.

Sunday

The sun streamed into the open blinds, and I curse under my breath that I fell asleep before closing them properly last night.

He touched my side, between my underwear and upper thigh, and I shivered. I knew what this would lead to. He positioned himself over me and started grinding. It wasn't bad, but it was also half eight in the morning and I couldn't be bothered doing more than laying there - occasionally putting my arms around him to pull the short hairs on the back of his neck like I know he likes.

We were so far into our relationship that he no longer asked. He just acted until I would tell him to stop. It was easier if I never did. The day would go smoother.

He continued to grind on me, and then slowly unbuttoned my pyjama top and grabbed a fistful of breast in one hand - like they were his.

There was a thin line between the wall and the ceiling where the last tenant had missed repainting the room. Maybe I should use the paint we found in the cupboard to patch that up. Is that my job though? How could they not have noticed that? I could do a better job, and the most I've ever painted is a self portrait in art class, where the portrait was me reimagined as a can of cream of chicken soup. 

He rolled me over. 

Now, all I could see was the pilling starting to occur on the sheet below me. At least it was soft. And at least I didn't have to look at him anymore. 

Men are simple creatures: a handful of boob, morning sex, and food in the fridge. If men were simple, did that automatically make me complicated? 

I wanted to be simple too.

Changes

And then before you know it, you're sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by key chains and cats and tea cups.

Back to reality

Stacks of paper

Holding memories

Stacked like coffee table books.

And then before I knew it I was remembering what it was like to travel the world, from afar.

I was no longer present: it was now in my past.

And I was different.

I was changed.

I wake up and forget where I am.

Oh, to know one home my whole life.

And now to be lost when I look out the window and see weeds and decking instead of squirrels and storm clouds.

And before I could blink, I was no longer wrapped in your arms for comfort but facing the future with forced independence and a facade of furled lips.

The shops have changed, the streets have grown, and new apartments block out the sheep that once roamed freely on my way to work. 

So I take a new route.

I get lost.

I adjust.

I learn.

And before I knew it, I learn that the funny thing about home is exactly what everyone has always told me: it's not a place. It's a feeling.

But I didn't take it with me. 

I feel I left it behind by accident because I didn't know I needed it. 

And now I wake up in the morning lost, disoriented, 

but radiant. A new beginning. A life loved.

The meaning of life is not the places, it's not even the music. It's the people and the memories and the feelings. It's creating and loving and living. Who knew?

The tears fall through streams of consciousness in the hazy light when I open my blinds and look outwards at my new beginnings.

Make your mark. See where it takes you next.

The purpose of life is to love and be loved: anywhere, always, everywhere.

And again.