Your hands are dirty, I say. You probably think I don’t like that much. It is the stains from work yesterday, you say. Like the stains in your eyes – I think but do not say as under them, though I do not understand why, I shake. Not outwardly so you would notice, I cover that with bravado. They do burn don’t they? They appear to, your eyes I mean. Do you burn? I think I do.
Yes, it is your hands more than your eyes, virile and testing my will, my resilience to being the unseen. I want to scream at you to stop. Don’t you know how hard it is to be near you and not be touched like those hands would touch me… wanting me… distracting me from nothing and everything? Paying me attention.
Urging me to allow myself to be wanted, to want.
The knots I have tied around my desire with sleeplessness and duty rip apart and explode into a million fibres coursing through my flesh. You are my undoing. I no longer needed my hollow full, nor cold skin warmed, in these days and nights ahead, and now you have messed with that. Mess with me then. Place your youthful hand around my arm and tell me you want me. Tear away my wall with rock hard flesh up against this barrier I have placed between myself and pleasure, and force yourself through my emptiness. Persist for my eyes to stare like a stunned deer into yours making me a young girl blushing; being touched inside for the first time. Make me feel, something, anything, with streams of joy journeying to the spark of life.
But, I won’t mess with you. In me there is no new life, no joyful journey anticipated. No place for you on my bosom to rest your head and listen to a heartbeat. No place in my womb for you to feel the movement of your future. All you will find here is need, greedy desire, not of a soft petalled flower soaking up the sun but a dusk drawn, half starved lioness, tearing at her kill to feed her cubs before self.
Now let me eat.