09 4 / 2011
There is a lot to say.
about people. The way they move. How hands wrap around coffee mugs. What their faces look like after they cum. How ugly joints are - knees, ankles, elbows. Why laughing sounds like crying sometimes.
There are stories to tell. About the woods. Where things go when they are lost. Where things go when they die. Stories about every wooden house next to a hill with tacky overgrown ivy. Every bedroom. Every dick, every pussy. Every smacked face. All the whimpers and pleas.
I don’t tell any stories with happy endings. I’m not sure such a thing exists.
I have things to say. About men. Rape. Why it still feels so fucking good to have my hair pulled. What this does to us. Is there any escape. Are we products of this abuse. Do we become forever what they forced us to be.
Things about black men. This magical skin. These sounds, movements. This laugh, smile like no ones. How beautiful it is to see rippling lengths of mahogany body. Smells: curve, cocoa butter, newport breath. Strength. Just strength.
I wanna talk about drugs and how I feel about being a drug addict.. Not many drugs, just weed. How natural it feels inside lungs, mouths, nostrils. Laughing fits, perfect sex, comfortable sleep. And is it wrong to want those things. Is it weed or is it my insatiable hunger for pleasure that is really the problem. And if it’s the latter, can I still smoke weed.
But mostly, I just want to know what the issue is and how I can fix it.
I am broken but I have so many stories.
