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“Mad Girl’s Love Song” by Sylvia Plath, born today in 1932

(via wolfsmilk)

(Source: diaboluslapis, via rottenrosen)

Biting your lip hard to stop yourself screaming.
Hands are so cold
But you smile behind dead eyes and put little smileys at the end of your texts

Last night i dreamt of him. I found my way into a small room inside a tree, and there he was. It was a small circular room carved into the tree. A large double bed with white sheets took up most of the space, a wide window took space on the left, it was sparsely decorated with three books sitting on a small log, and a tall white lamp. He was on the bed, under the sheets, wearing soft grey pants. He smiled at me and motioned me to sit next to him on the bed. 

I looked down, and I was only wearing a vintage satin nightgown I bought from a antique store awhile ago. It doesn’t fit right and hangs too low on my tiny frame. My nipples jut out awkwardly. My knees were scraped (from the climb up the tree i guess) and I felt like a little girl coming home.

I laid down next to him. We filled the space with only the sound of breathing. I guess I just didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t expecting to see him in my dreams. 

He strokes my hair, smiles, and says; “Cheryl, lets go to sleep. It will be the last time we can do this. Nobody can see or hear us here, we’re safe”

I wasn’t anyone to argue against that. But I still didn’t know what the hell was going on. He’s called me by my real name less than the number of fingers I have. (10, the last time I checked)

I felt oddly comforted by his being there. He held me to sleep and I drifted away almost immediately. I met him when frost was in season and it played out the same way in my sleep. The air was chilly, the floorboards creaked but only slightly, the sheets smelt like the dryer, and crinkled in my ear like a soft paper bag.

My sleep was time-less, dreamless. Like waking up from a anesthetic-induced coma. He was already awake next to me. I don’t know what time it was, but a milky blue light streamed from his window, kissing our skins, the lampshade, my side of the sheets, barely illuminating the room but just the right amount of brightness I loved. His palms, skim across the outline of my body, playfully tries to pull my gown over my head, but it gets stuck in a tangle of hair, satin and lace. It hangs over my head like a bridal veil and he stops. He strokes hair away from my face and finally speaks.

“You’d look really nice in a wedding dress you know? I wish i could be the one. ”

“but it’s too late. you left”

“I know. And i’m sorry for that. I’m sorry this had to happen”

He looked slightly sad. I don’t know. I couldn’t really see with lace over my eyes but I felt a little sad.

We were silent for a few minutes, and he said again

“This is the last time you will see me, when you wake up, you will be free”

He touched me again, but it felt weird. Like he was taking something away as his hands moved on my skin. I couldn’t comprehend. He put his hands on my shoulders and kissed my forehead, and slid his hands down my arms till they lay flat on top of my hands. 

I remember the milky twilight, and the small room, the warmth and the loss, the timelessness of being there, like i’d spent an eternity laying still in that bed, and yet it also felt like the time we had together was less than a few minutes. Stuck in limbo in this vacuum.

He said, 

“goodbye”

And i woke up immediately. The same sleepy blue light filtered into the room through sheer curtains. It was 5am on a Saturday. I felt a heaviness lift. I felt the emptiness of rebirth set in. It was just so strange.

Bless Me Father for I Have Sinned | AfroerotiK →

I was in my zone. I knew I had him just where I wanted him and it was turning me on like crazy. I was tempting this devout holy man with my particular brand of perversion and he was falling for it hook, line, and sinker. I have long had my suspicions that anyone who makes a conscious choice to deny their sexuality is ripe for perverse pickings so to speak. Sex is natural, human beings are supposed to have sex. Anyone who denies their sexuality, suppresses it, is setting themselves up for mental illness and sexual addiction. Duh! All these priests molesting children is clearly because humans are not meant to be asexual and they are driven to these detrimental and deviant behaviors because they have shut off that part of themselves which is natural. And now that priests can have access to porn every day all day on the internet, every sort of degrading, misogynist, vulgar porn, they are sure to be even more susceptible to being led astray and have more opportunities for sexual depravity than most people would care to acknowledge or accept.

I moved closer to the partition. I whispered so the priest would be forced to lean in closer. “I’m not sure where to begin, Father. I guess it all started when I got my heart broken by a guy who was a sociopath. Up until that point in my life I had been pretty comfortable being average and regular, hiding and denying my sexuality like everyone else. Then, I dated evil incarnate, a demon; I fell in love with someone without a soul. He was beyond a pathological liar. Every single solitary word out of his mouth was a lie. He lied when he would swear to me he was telling the truth. He looked me in the eye and lied to me, used me, he cheated on me. He told me he loved me, told me he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me, that I was the woman of his dreams, for no other reason than he wanted to fuck me. He got a perverse thrill out of making me believe that he was my ideal lover, that he believed in me and was supportive of me when he knew I was just a placeholder for the next woman he could romance who would feed his distorted ego. When I found out the truth, it broke my heart in ways I can’t even explain. I was emotionally shattered.”

(Source: sexgenderbody)

“ It’s said it takes seven years to grow completely new skin cells.
To think, this year I will grow
into a body you never will have touched. ”

(Source: theoryoflostthings, via shugnice-deactivated20160604)