Unpainted

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When did my life become such a farce?
How did I take the first step off the palette?
Of what was supposed to be painted
I can no longer see the brush strokes
Nor feel the magic of the creation

What are your fantasies, he asks?
And I answer, I don't know.
Have I become so out of touch with myself?
I no longer know what gives me pleasure,

Indigo and crimson splatters of paint
Slick slippery wetness,
The white expanse begging to be filled
The brush slides across the canvas
The faint chemical tang of each color
Stained cloths to wipe the brushes on


No That’s not all
For so long I have lain in bed unfulfilled,
Next to your body every night
Desiring, needing, silently pleading for a lovers touch,
My thighs slick with the wetness of my desires,
And you my partner, snoring next to me, oblivious.

Being penetrated, my vagina used like a black hole,
Selfishly, not asking or thinking, or offering to give me pleasure,
Look it’s purple and stiff,
I must use it, and you must be ready.
He wordlessly declares
Having touched you not, stimulated you not.
The mere sight of his erections should lubricate your dry folds

And so, he penetrates,
Grunts and groans
Thrusts into my nothingness.
Into my complete lack of interest or desire.
Blue I think,
Blue I should paint the ceiling with white clouds,
And soft golden sunlight.

I come back down,
To notice his thrusts have speeded,
I feel now inside me,
He has enlarged,
He will explode,
Pour his pale cream into me,
And it will dribble out later, proof of his love.

That in itself should be enough one should think.
After all aren't the bonds of love proven in bed
The thrusts and motions of lovemaking.
Can this catastrophe even be termed thus?

Lovemaking,
The word itself connotate a craft, an art, an act of work.
Does he think this thrusting is that?
Could it possibly be?
That he realizes not what he is doing,
Like a small child smearing paint on paper,
Not giving thought to form or composition.

He is asleep, and his semen leaks out of me.
Like sad and silent tears leak from my eyes
I masturbate,
Trying not to wake him,
Hoping he will awaken and offer to help or watch
Anything, just to give validity to my desires
But he does not,

What I fantasize,
Is so tame its embarrassing,
I long for a mouth on my nipples sucking life into my soul.
Fingers gently exploring my pink labia.
Fingers touching me, that are not my own,
Kisses on my pale thighs
The soft velvet touch of a warm tongue on my clitoris
I dream of erotic embraces.

The lusts and passions of commitment
Not the simple pleasures of youth,
But serious relationships.
Never did I dream,
I would be making such a sacrifice
Gratification exchanged for a stable home

When I pleasure myself
I dream of an unfettered life,
A parade of lovers like tubes of rainbow paints
Constant variety, changing techniques,
None of them leave me like this while they sleep.

In my dreams it is perfect.
Touching and taking his time.
Slow buildup I can feel.
Internal nerve wires being pulled and stretched
To the breaking point
Then with one final turn
They all break loose from their moorings
Nerves firing in every direction
Body sparking with the shooting of impulses
Like fireworks streaking
Red and gold and silver,
Across the sky.

Do not think I suffer in silence
I have told him.
How many times
I cannot count.
Please touch me.
Hold me.
Caress me.

Each request, falls on deaf ears.
Screaming louder than my tears,
Shed alone in the darkened night.
How could I fall into this trap?
I have loved, and been loved

Why is this my sexual reparation?
Such a factor in who I am
It is vital to me.
this is not the canvas i painted,
whoses painting is this
all these dark and dreary colors
gray and black ,mushy browns
unsigned,
Claimed by no one.

I have become a frantic masturbator.
But that's an empty thing as well.
The convulsions of my body mean nothing,
Mere physical relief is not what I so desire.

Is it so difficult to think that I need satisfaction of the soul?
Skin to skin contact
Your tongue on my labia as proof of your love?

I crave bite marks and bruises
Of purple and orange and yellow.
The soreness of the body well orgasmed.
The inability to close my legs,
From the red swelling coital pleasure brings

I desperately want to unburden my body’s desires
To pour the liquid heat of my body into my lovers mouth,
To soak the sheets with passion,
Leaving white powdery stains behind.
To be left sated and languid post lovemaking

The paint has dried out and the brushes are lost
The artist of my life is gone on vacation
I cannot repaint the ceiling.

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