Welcome to Gaia! :: View User's Journal | Gaia Journals

Thousands of years of human life, brimming at the edges. When did we unearth the nature of need? I speak it now to you and all confessions are trite. Everything has been spoken; every passion has been named. There are only molds for us, spirit and clay, shaping ourselves to our forefathers, treading paths already mapped, following footsteps to a predictable treasure.

No, I say, your hands fisted in my hair. Everything we are is like the first time. You and I, we are new, we are recreating the world between us, each grain of sand, each star. Count them. I will follow you to the four corners of the earth and worship you there, spend eternity crouched here before you, an altar of skin and tongue.

Every time you tell me yes, it is a new dream.

There is a deception in us, where no questions are asked and no answers are washed up, here where you hold me against the scratch of stone and leave your name on my skin, the burn of chemicals, the scrape of teeth. In the morning the mirror mocks me, untainted. I forget so easily these days.

Let me crawl to you, your dream now, an apparition in cold light. Let me mold my voice to you, this hungry pleading emptiness you penetrate and transform. No. More. You pull me up to your lips and sear away doubt.

But sometimes, later, sometimes I think we have drowned in it, that we are no longer ourselves. We have been remolded by this fire, heated until we are pliable, and sometimes I don't recognize you when I see you . It is then that I think I am living inside my mind, inventing ending after ending just to prolong the reality, but your mouth is real and cruel and hot and really, who needs truth when they can have you?