tagErotic PoetryFantasm Masochist

Fantasm Masochist

byWillow Rain©

I lay out my stories on the floor,
symbolic trinkets,
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.

Full,
I sit,
unable to speak.
Unwilling, now that I have tried twice.
The sudden feeling of isolation
and rejection
is intense.

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 masochist.”
No chaser of the endorphin wheel
that spins round and round
like the lumpy
clay shape
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
bright sensation
hot coiling sting
waving heat.

I would do it again.

I would

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,
“Masochist.”

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.

“Masochist.”

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