A friend told me that . . .
- something I had written made him feel aroused and dirty.
- if I ever wanted to seduce someone, I could do it with that voice (we were talking over the phone). He promptly asked me to stop talking that way.
- I talk a lot but say nothing.
- he couldn’t have sex with some girl, because he was thinking of me
- of course -- there was no doubt in his mind that I wore the sexiest underwear in our group of friends
- he didn’t like it when I said the phrase e-driven-mindfuck
- it’s impossible for women to masturbate.
- I have a strange geographically indefinable accent.
- that I seem to be one of those girls who have been physically abused and emotionally destroyed by lovers.
- he had other motives for getting me drunk the other day.
I wonder if I’ll ever be able to escape these feelings. - The urgent desire to scream until my lungs explode.
Maybe this is what it feels like to want to create violence. To be the spark that sets off the fire.
Because there are these brief moments of insanity when I’m convinced that crushing myself against something concrete and unforgiving until it hurt might just be better than this.
Momentary enough to recognize the images immediately upon surfacing as internal manifestations of my own unexpressed fear, hurt, anger, outrage, animosity, indifference . . .. So I push it away in order to keep moving.
But the pressure remains.
Making it difficult to draw breath.
To see colors with my eyes closed.
To imagine what it would feel like to not feel like this.