Like a long wave, like a roll of heavy waters, he went over me, his devastating presence - dragging me open, laying bare the pebbles on the shore of my soul.
Derrida says it’s just a quotation, that it’s only standing in for something true, but the way you whispered it to me so tentatively, after a pause that spanned the breadth of quantifiable time itself, after you had let go and surrendered yourself in a way you’d previously thought impossible, tells me that Derrida had never looked at anyone the way you look at me.
I dance. I ripple. I am thrown over you like a net of light. I lie quivering flung over you.
Silly poet, silly man: thought I could master nature like a misguided preacher
as if banishing love is a fix. As if the stars go out when we shut our sleepy eyes
I started to hurt and you cared so much, you dropped everything to make sure I was ok. You touch me now so differently. You don’t head straight between my legs, you stroke over my face, arms, stomach and back and you kiss me on the head and on the nose. Two nights ago at a party after you were sick and I cleaned you up, you told me again that you didn’t love me.
Who are you trying to kid?
In a way, you are poetry material; You are full of cloudy subtleties I am willing to spend a lifetime figuring out. Words burst in your essence and you carry their dust in the pores of your ethereal individuality.
But confusingly, misogynists are sometimes men who speak softly and eat vegan and say “a woman’s sexual freedom is an essential component to her liberation. So come here.” It’s a tricky world out there. And while I’d prefer a critical approach to gender from men I elect, read and even bed, in my experience, the so-called feminist men I’ve met deep down have not been less antagonistic or bigoted toward women. What I see over and over again is misogyny in sheep’s clothing, and at this point, I would rather see wolves as wolves.