in the pit of the raw.

I'm fuckin scared. I want the ink to run in perfect lines and curves and make my cowardice cleancut and respectable. It's nothing but the distrust of an idiot. It's nothing but the prediction of an imbecile. And I'm waiting for the words to come to explain this, rip the lies at the seams and find some truth. They are the same threads, deceit and the blatant existence of what is before and inside me. Things I don't mind saying but still for some reason I don't. Things I'm scared of setting out before me, which might not be as dangerous as I make them out to be. In my colorful childish armor. Little girl on the swingset, holding a contorted sex drive in her mudstained hands. Piercing condoms and popping pills as she falls down the slide. Slippery surface. Dew drops on plastic. Uncertainty and night air. Drawing on the margins of my confessions and drowning in a thrill.

Things I miss and things I lost, infinite would-be cupboards in my mind, resistance to the meticulousness of anything certain.

Like the fear of being owned, the yearning for you to draw commands with your hands on my flesh. Fingerpainting the desire for obedience even as you get off to my refusal of it.