Many of these writings were lost in their electronic version and were retyped from hard copy. I haven't had a chance to proofread and edit the entries the way I would like to. Please forgive formatting inconsistencies and gross errors and typos.
You don’t love me. You don’t want to have sex with me. Your eyes lock with mine. Words spoken matter-of-factly. Elixirs of truth say differently. You love me. You hate me. Up. Down. Up. Down. Roller coaster zipping up and down, round and round. Topsy turvey. Motion sickness. Nausea rising.
You hate me because you love me. You don’t tell me this, but there are truths I know.
As we sit beneath the luminous full moon, you are at war with your demons, adrenaline pumping, hating me, because I don’t love you. Hating yourself, because I don’t love you. I am cold. You take my hands gently into yours, loving, caressing, warm. You fasten your gaze into mine. A roller coaster zips between us and grabs me for a ride. Woosh! I am sick again from the motion. Your demons have conquered you. Defeated and weak from your battle, you now battle me. What do you want from me? You want my love. You want my trust. You want my response. Response to a man’s touch. Your touch? But at that moment, you are not a man. Your demons have subjugated you, and all that stands before me is a hideous creature that wants to crush me and devour me, because I cannot be possessed.
Masculine. Macho. Masculinity dormant deep beneath the surface. Machismo reigning terror. Caveman macho. Gallant knight masculine. Tears well in your eyes. You ask me why I can’t see what is standing right in front of me, and you tell me one day I will realize what was before me all along. Love is coming. No, it’s already here. There, I said it, is what you tell me. This is the first time you say this without your elixirs of truth to prompt you. I am not deaf. I am not cold. I hear you.
Feeling safe. Talking. Crying. Running hot bath water, because I deserve it. I see what is standing before me.