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You either wipe away your sorrows with the words written here or you relive them. You come across a couple of smiles, a couple of tears. You have bouts of sighs colliding with emotions and you take a sip of wine in the hope that it will help ease the knot in your throat. It is a bookmark - as she often says - marking the memories that you naively thought you had hidden, making you feel that they are still there, even if you pretend to get rid of them.
Unexpectedly, a couple of pains in the body appear to somatize those emotions that you did not want to drain; those that you swallowed out of pride or fear of being too weak. You remember all those orgasms ended with tears; the mistakes in other beds and the unsatisfied feeling from a screen loaded with obscene images. And some claws make that love that you are desperately trying to put out resurface. You intoxicate yourself with a little bit of sex, sarcasm, and pain; a little more than what you feel but cannot express; you read it, relive it, and the discomfort returns.
You close it and remember how masochistic you are, because you want to keep reading to relive the good amidst the bad that you are trying to forget. You look for another glass of wine and always choose to continue...probably a couple of tears will mark it and you won't be able to put it on your nightstand; it is no longer just the pillow that accompanies you, but thousands of stories, too. It's not so bad after all, because you know it happened to someone else too.
Unexpectedly, a couple of pains in the body appear to somatize those emotions that you did not want to drain; those that you swallowed out of pride or fear of being too weak. You remember all those orgasms ended with tears; the mistakes in other beds and the unsatisfied feeling from a screen loaded with obscene images. And some claws make that love that you are desperately trying to put out resurface. You intoxicate yourself with a little bit of sex, sarcasm, and pain; a little more than what you feel but cannot express; you read it, relive it, and the discomfort returns.
You close it and remember how masochistic you are, because you want to keep reading to relive the good amidst the bad that you are trying to forget. You look for another glass of wine and always choose to continue...probably a couple of tears will mark it and you won't be able to put it on your nightstand; it is no longer just the pillow that accompanies you, but thousands of stories, too. It's not so bad after all, because you know it happened to someone else too.
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