Declaration of dependence

Popping and blowing and breathing. Breathing quiet in the dark, in the middle of a fan. Annoying sense of still and quiet, when real tranquility comes with laughter. I don’t want to ignore that things are happening, that I am alive, that I love and I live and I breathe and I cry. Because tears are made of the stuff of trampled desires and laughter is made of dreams gone bold. I want to know what it is that made you this way. Except I do. And I know you. I know you all too well and all too fully. And I feel every trembling shiver of your essence stay short of one more declaration. This is my fucking declaration of dependence. Not that I need you to function, or to move. But I need you to fly, to breathe, to see. That you should become my very own pair of broken sunglasses, attached to my pupils, stuck to my eyelids, that the full panorama of a desperate perspective can only be seen if I renounce the possibility of forgetting you exist.
All I want to do is pour noise in between sighs over and over again, even as your sweat still clings to my shirt, clings like burnt roses and mangled cries and clenched fists waiting to unfurl. To unfurl honey, only into embraces around me. Your hands around my waist, your breath on my neck, an excruciating exhilaration of knowing that for now, we are two magnets. For now, we are nothing other than opposing liquid metals, glowing golden minerals craving each others thirst.
And with every tick tock fucking ticking of the pathetic clock, It doesn’t get any softer, any less cruel or obnoxious or lost in the idea of anything superficial. I cannot justify this as yet another childish dream, or another stumble of a broken naivete. I cannot let it get lost in my pink cardboard memory box. a little shithole of pink scraps. Pink, like everything I always hated, like the frills and the ties and the plastic dolls and nipple-less breasts of commercial dolls that screamed at me dully, oppressively, from walls, asking from me to be another product, a factory made girly girl, a dressed up prima ballerina with a yearning for the clean.
Fuck the memory box of anything particularly sweet then. You must never go back to where once you were happy. Because things always change, they decide to melt away, to shatter hopelessly or simply to lock themselves in cheap beer bottles over and over again, breathing in ocean saltwater like it’s the only force that can keep us neutral.
I can feel the breaking. The breaking of hopes and the silencing of so many voices that I want to hear. Because holy nights of thrusts and moans can be as violent as the blade that renders me dirty forever. I want the water to wash away every memory of desecration, and the flowing river in me to burn away the screams like acid. Screams of pleasure, of pain, of shattering incommodity and shock, and a lost forgiven moan of need in the middle of the wrong set of sheets. Look down upon me, Jesus fucking Christ, and tell me what im doing wrong. That fears and regrets should take over. Or that I should simply, laugh away my opened legs and feel my burning flux take me over, make me woman. Make me full and yearning woman. Feel myself grow bigger, and fuller in the sense of feeling. Because of a scientifically proven surface area, or simply my psyche pried open by a sweet blade. Like a virginal pole dancer, who finally realized that the pleasure her body felt was her own. Her own to own up to, or to whisper and shh away into a night full of dew.
I told you once to smell the secrets from behind my neck, and you lifted my hair and kissed my skin and said what secrets? You were holding them between your fingers, in every strand and demi curl, counting them with something other than numbers, and talking as if you couldn’t see them hanging there. I know they are as natural to you as the creases that cross the palms of your hands. I know they are nothing but specks of dust in your own big fucking cavern of a life. Topple over gently honey. And fall down with the sense of vertigo in the pit of your stomach. Contract your every muscle in a dance without a floor and bite down on your lip like you did when you imagined. When you imagined that everything was different. And that that was your son on the plain wooden floor. That was your music flowing in his veins. Those were your dark glinting eyes full of tears that ran into his blonde hair.
Yes darling, I saw. Yes.
I saw you smile as your throat dampened in bittersweet choking tears. I saw you look down to yourself, with the honesty of a fact that you know only I could have seen. Let jesus or holy Buddha bring you down from your very own altar, only because you are afraid to leap. Gravity has nothing on you baby. Nothing. You were made to fly with your own pain and breathe in air higher than air.
I want to inhale you and have you in small glinting pieces running in my blood, my liquid, watered down blood that always finds a way to burn when youre in me.

I am chasing drops of mirrors, strewn across the floor, ill lick them off the walls in desperate whispering prayers. If I ever prayed. Have you even known a prayer free of fear?

Thank you for the sweetness. My tongue has been cut by nails in my food for too long. My lips have been melt shut for too many counts, and now I just want to rip the seams apart. And my own hands haven’t been able to do so in so long. You are removing every single stitch slowly and carefully. Undone, unseen and unhappened. It never knew a way of being so much for me. Fear was holding everything at a standstill, was crashing on the faces of every stubborn watch. in every wrist of hurrying commuters in unexistent trains, everywhere around us and around me time went unchecked. But you kiss the strings loose, subtly strange. Your fingers hold me in a moment, my breath being marked by nothing but a silent laughter in your chest. A bubbling set of laughs and heartbeats, even as you hold me close, as you desire for us to pray. Skin to skin over and over again to drown the tingling of things unsaid. The tingling sensation of torturing madness taking over our thoughts as we cannot exorcise everything we wish to be rid of, all the time, every day. Consume us with nothing but desperation to forget. So lets pray. out of peace. Out of a sense of knowing we have a choice. Because we do. Because we are given all the elements in a sickly doctors bag, and we choose how to use them and when to leave them there, passively staring at us in the face as we contort in our final words. The final twitching of a reaching arm and the final blink of an eye that has seen too much.