Sometimes I talk to myself, because I need expert advice.
Other times I fight with myself…
Because sometimes I knew better.
This concept sounds like regret. But it wasn’t written while feeling regret.
I didn’t start out this complex either. It started as “Sometimes I talk to myself, other times I fight with myself…” and the rest just flowed.
I’ve been writing fiction. Its dark.
I’ve been writing poetry. Its spicy. You wouldn’t like it. (Vanilla ice cream is too spicy for some people)
The interesting thing is that one flowed from the other… it the order listed. Its like embracing the darkness unlocked something that I hadn’t tampered with in a long time.
The last time I wrote anything spicy, I was in high school. And my dad found it. And he read it. I was so embarrassed that if I could have ceased to exist, I would have just poofed myself away. Along with the embarrassment was something I didn’t have a name for at the time. I felt violated. Emotionally and intellectually violated.
I wasn’t ready to have that part of my mind seen by anyone, least of all him. So now, the idea of sharing any of it is a daunting prospect to say the least. His only comment after reading it was “You might have a future in writing smut.”
I never wrote another spicy story again.
So, as with all the other things I’ve been repressing as a result of him… its being resurrected from the miasma of my past.
The most fun part of it has been attempting to write it without outright saying anything explicit.
Along path getting to this point, I stumbled across a content creator on Instagram that goes by blame_it_on_joey who was reciting poetry in response to a comment he had received. His poem might have been a little inspiration. Here is his poem (and if you can’t watch it, I’ve copied the caption from the video down below):
A post shared by @blame_it_on_joey
Your name
Tastes like sin
And I roll it across my tongue like a promise
I’ve been aching to break
Every glance you throw
Is a hand around my throat
And a spark down my spine
Peeling away the last threads of innocence that I once pretended to have
You look at me and I forget my own name
Only knowing that if you told me to kneel
I’d hit the floor without a thought,
Without shame,
And thank you for tearing me apart
Because you’re not the kind of hunger that can be sated.
You are ruin
disguised as salvation
And God help me
I want you to ruin me
Slowly
Again
And again
Until I forget what it ever felt like to be untouched