What I really want
I've been doing some thinking. Introspecting, really. Thinking about what I want. What I really want, more than anything in this world.
Love. Ah, but let's define love.
I want to be made to feel beautiful - not for whatever thrills my body promises to offer, but for the eccentricities of my mind. For my obscure sense of humour, my extensive repertoire of facial expressions. Because you will never meet anyone quite like me. Because there is no one who does anything in the world quite like I do.
But I want you to love my body. Oh yes. With all its many flaws and faults. Because that is my life, etched into me in a way my voice can never reproduce. There are stories in my skin, in the curves of my body - (too many curves, I hear them whisper) - and in the resolute set of my jaw, the careless fall of windblown hair onto slightly hunched, scarred shoulders.
I want you to love me even though I am not and will never be heroin chic, will never be slender and achingly graceful like the blonde Hollywood girls. Tell me I'm beautiful even when I swear out loud in front of your family - (I'm not the kind of girl you take home to meet your parents) - or accidentally spill coffee on your favourite couch. Make me come alive in your arms even when I bitch and whine because my day has been shit. Take all my pain away with your sweetest kiss.
I have fantasies about sunsets and wine and black silk sheets, of candlelight and rose petals and the fading light turning your hair to burnished flame. I dream of my fingers drawn inexorably to satin skin upon which goosebumps rise at my touch, of long hair, full lips and a mind as razor keen and cynical as my own. Someone who understands, or at the very least accepts me for who - what - I am.
I want crazy love, something to make me weak in the knees. I want everything to remind me of you when you are not there. I want to sink my teeth into your beauty, to be enveloped in your warmth, your strength, to let your scent surround me in a haze until I am weak with desire and cannot breathe for needing you. I want...
Truth. The reality of who you are. No airs, no mockery. I want to see the bad with the good, the cruel with the gentle and every other side of you there is. I want...
The spider-touch of pale fingers on my skin in the cyanide half-light of the backseat of a car. Cold air tempered by the heat of your body above mine. Silence broken by gasps, words only half spoken, caught between a shuddering breath and a groan of desire. Fogged-up windows. Your skin against my skin, slick with sweat, something dark and sensual latching its claws around us and tightening its grip until we can never let go...
I want forever. I want more than meaningless words, more than material lust, more than intellectual camaraderie. I want all of you, whether you're willing to give it or not.
And this is why, I think, I'm destined to be alone.
Love. Ah, but let's define love.
I want to be made to feel beautiful - not for whatever thrills my body promises to offer, but for the eccentricities of my mind. For my obscure sense of humour, my extensive repertoire of facial expressions. Because you will never meet anyone quite like me. Because there is no one who does anything in the world quite like I do.
But I want you to love my body. Oh yes. With all its many flaws and faults. Because that is my life, etched into me in a way my voice can never reproduce. There are stories in my skin, in the curves of my body - (too many curves, I hear them whisper) - and in the resolute set of my jaw, the careless fall of windblown hair onto slightly hunched, scarred shoulders.
I want you to love me even though I am not and will never be heroin chic, will never be slender and achingly graceful like the blonde Hollywood girls. Tell me I'm beautiful even when I swear out loud in front of your family - (I'm not the kind of girl you take home to meet your parents) - or accidentally spill coffee on your favourite couch. Make me come alive in your arms even when I bitch and whine because my day has been shit. Take all my pain away with your sweetest kiss.
I have fantasies about sunsets and wine and black silk sheets, of candlelight and rose petals and the fading light turning your hair to burnished flame. I dream of my fingers drawn inexorably to satin skin upon which goosebumps rise at my touch, of long hair, full lips and a mind as razor keen and cynical as my own. Someone who understands, or at the very least accepts me for who - what - I am.
I want crazy love, something to make me weak in the knees. I want everything to remind me of you when you are not there. I want to sink my teeth into your beauty, to be enveloped in your warmth, your strength, to let your scent surround me in a haze until I am weak with desire and cannot breathe for needing you. I want...
Truth. The reality of who you are. No airs, no mockery. I want to see the bad with the good, the cruel with the gentle and every other side of you there is. I want...
The spider-touch of pale fingers on my skin in the cyanide half-light of the backseat of a car. Cold air tempered by the heat of your body above mine. Silence broken by gasps, words only half spoken, caught between a shuddering breath and a groan of desire. Fogged-up windows. Your skin against my skin, slick with sweat, something dark and sensual latching its claws around us and tightening its grip until we can never let go...
I want forever. I want more than meaningless words, more than material lust, more than intellectual camaraderie. I want all of you, whether you're willing to give it or not.
And this is why, I think, I'm destined to be alone.
posted by Ariana at 6:21 PM
3 Comments:
You know what I think...
I read this in the morning and it woke me up.
Wide eyes, quickening breath.
I sat dazzled and blown and wondering.
I smoked too many cigarettes.
...
...
And I wrote.
I'm glad I inspire you.
I want so many things, and so many of them seem impossible. Where in the hell am I going to find someone like that, someone who'll give me everything?
I want what I want, but I know I can't get it. But hey - not everyone can have a happy ending. Some people have to write the stories.
Are you thinking anything coherent? Because I do love criticism...on a creative level, a personal level. I'm open to anything you have to say.
I will copy your page and do some real reading and commenting...
/s/ Andrew
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