03.02.02 - 12:06 am
it's march. and i dont know how much longer i can wait.
i wonder sometimes what the hell im thinking. you and i are a geographical mis-match if ever there was one, my feet in the hard-packed oven of the earth, yours tangled in the urban snaggle of the city. what can we do to bridge the desert with the sea?
tomorrow while im waiting tables, you'll be in the ring.
and i know this isnt feminist, or proper, or even civilly minded, but the whole thing makes me hot- the shit you talk the night before the fight, the thought of you glistening- gloves on, mouthpiece in, covered in sweat and naked at the waist, you as a savage, pounding face into the floor for no reason other than you like the way it feels.
and i think about my own sex, my own taste for blood and lust for violent love, for breaking furniture and slamming into walls, for being loud and getting fucked hard, for the stretch and pull of you, tight and hot beneath my skin.
and im afraid. because ive been told that i should fear.
when we read wittig and talked about her work, she tried to explain the urgency, the violent rage of sex. the foul, disturbing manner in which passion can unfold.
and maybe theyre okay. the things we will do.
