I am filled with desire for you. I wish you’re here with me right now. Wish I could feel you next to me. Kissing me. Little kisses. Slow kisses. Hungry kisses. Devouring kisses. Gentle kisses. Sloppy kisses.
I know nothing is ever simple, but please trust me: I will always want you whispering in my mouth.
Today I am trying to balance my failures with my accomplishments and I’m not yet sure who is winning. It’s been three decades of thinking that I’m broken, you know. But also, I’m wondering: maybe not shattered but fragmented. Maybe not damaged, and merely irregular.
I feel the older I get the more I am learning a lot about the world and about men and women in particular—how we think about what constitutes desire, how the mind can connect (or disconnect) with the body when it comes to intellectual and emotional lust, and how much of what we want are echoes of the heart more than anything else.
“I adore you. You make me believe that everything is possible…I want to commit excesses.”— Henry Miller, in a letter to Anaïs Nin, 3 April 1932
“Yes, I’ve got lots of places in my head where I’d like to spend time with you. I always imagine I could have a wonderful time with you, if you didn’t have to think about catching the 6 o’clock train…Yes, I think too much about going with you, drumming it into you, laughing with you, listening to you. And at the same time I have a strong urge to protect you.
…I know that there is beauty in the world which is utterly out of my reach and I bow down before it. It is a world on which I have slammed the door and I will never try to open that door, but I must confess that in the night I go back now and again and I stand wistfully before it and I know I left something precious there…That’s where I’m weak. I always believe I can summon it when I want.”— Henry Miller, in a letter to Anaïs Nin, 9 April 1932
“Anaïs, you have become so vital a part of me that I’m completely upside down, if this means anything. I don’t know what I write—only that I love you, that I must have you exclusively, fiercely, possessively. I don’t know what I want. I’ve got too much, I guess. You’ve overwhelmed me and you’ve spoiled me. I keep asking harder and harder things of you. I expect you to accomplish miracles. You don’t know how I miss those nights we spent together—how much they meant to me. Other times you are just a phantom, a wraith. You come and you make me sick with desire, with a desire to possess you, to have you around me always, talking to me naturally, moving about as if you were a part of me.”— Henry Miller, in a letter to Anaïs Nin, 7 June 1932
Saudade is one of my favourite words. Also: petrichor, or the smell of the earth after it rains. Also: gargantuan. Also: delirium. Among other things.
I never said it was going to be uncomplicated. To be a woman and to be a little girl, to exist in the same mind and heart and body, to feel the depths of my emotions so keenly—is there any refuge, at all, from this? And do I even want it?
I love Adrienne Rich. I love her as I love a long lineage of poets that have saved me. Here is a poem:
it will not be simple, it will not be long
it will take little time, it will take all your thought
it will take all your heart, it will take all your breath
it will be short, it will not be simple
it will touch through your ribs, it will take all your heart
it will not be long, it will occupy your thought
as a city is occupied, as a bed is occupied
it will take all your flesh, it will not be simple
You are coming into us who cannot withstand you
you are coming into us who never wanted to withstand you
you are taking parts of us into places never planned
you are going far away with pieces of our lives
it will be short, it will take all your breath
it will not be simple, it will become your will
I think—I think because I feel so much every day, all the damn time, because I am so attuned and sensitive to everybody else’s emotions and energies, there’s this weight I carry, if unconsciously.
Your power and dominance over me is something I very much need and crave. I’m willing to bend and bow, not to break, but to surrender—to yield.
It can be good, really good. I want to wrap myself around that feeling, where only you and I reside, because it makes me feel…more centred maybe. Stronger.
I keep thinking about how I’m like a feral animal sometimes, and how I became that way. Disappointment after disappointment maybe, of hoping and then being left, of opening up to someone and being told it’s not going to work out.
It comes to a point where you just—take care of yourself as best as you can.
So now here I am, wild and untamed—showing you my naked self, asking you to take a chance and teach me to respond to you, to open to you—
These walls that I have—they’re not there because I cannot feel anymore, but because I feel too much…
I keep thinking about the palm of your hand on my ass. Your tongue in my mouth. Your hand in my cunt.
I know I have to earn you.
I am trying every day to not think of myself as broken. Also: I want to hold your hand.