Fantasm MasochistbyWillow Rain©
I lay out my stories on the floor,
like a kid home from camp.
A lumpy ashtray
with a red emblazoned V takes a prominent place.
Eager to pour everything into your lap that fills my head,
my lips part but you close them,
with a lifted hand.
You have things to say,
your life is vibrant with change right now
vivid with things that feel risky for you.
I hesitate, but then turn away
from my pile of trinkets.
You absently look at a picture or two from the pile
and place them to the side.
The conversation turns
and I am still so full of things
that press to my lips
hidden by my teeth.
I reach again for things that mean something to me.
and you brush them away.
My lumpy ashtray lays
forlorn on the floor.
unable to speak.
Unwilling, now that I have tried twice.
The sudden feeling of isolation
Hollow feeling, I am quiet on the floor with the bits and flotsam
of my experience around me.
I drop words onto a page
that I would have whispered in your ear.
The ashtray, I turn on its side
and roll along the floor.
The cane mark on its bottom
rolls round and round.
I watch it spin.
It holds symbolism for me,
the shape of a label I may be breaking,
a title I am ready to release.
Always I have said.
“I am no pain slut.”
No chaser of the endorphin wheel
that spins round and round
like the lumpy
I am rolling on the floor.
Lump, bump, across the floor,
I think of the hiss of the cane.
I hadn’t known if I could take it,
but I had wanted to know
my mouth full of eagerness.
It shifted my perception of who and what I am
Or who and what I might be.
Inexperience may have tainted my preconceptions
and given me fake edges
that I had assumed were clear.
I liked it
hot coiling sting
I would do it again.
ask to do it again.
My fingers rest on the marks on my skin.
All the pain is gone.
Memory lingers in clean red V’s on my flesh.
I would have gone further.
I will go further.
That realization cracks long held beliefs
that I have had.
I lay down the old labels
and wonder at what the new ones might be.
Borders I used to know the edges of expand outward like a horizon.
I bend forward
on my knees
sliding my hands on the floor.
The edges have moved
and I cannot find them.
Resting my cheek on the cold tile
I claim the word
for the first time,
I leave it on the page
where you can find it if you choose to look.
I do not have the courage to try again
with more spoken words or gestures.
I place it here
on the paper like an Egyptian beetle.
It gleams like obsidian to me
and I touch the very tip of my hot tongue
to it’s cool clean edge.