nina semen.

because there is only so close i’ll allow myself to get before i panic
before i’m too close for my own comfort
and i back away. turn and run.
is there anything more terrifying than intimacy?

relinquishing power over your heart is…
brave.
more brave than i am able to be.

for a while it was delicious to kiss him through his tears. his lips would tremble pitifully beneath mine; his fingers would grasp so tightly at me, searching for the invisible tether that could keep me from leaving. and i would smile.

it felt good, to be the emotionally sadistic one this time. it was how i healed: feeding off of his misery. a succubus, role switching in this new “relationship”. tearing him apart and sucking him dry in an effort to put myself back together, fill myself back up.

i did it until i felt healthy again, realizing deep down that i was even worse off than before. of course it felt much better to be on the dispensing end of the pain this time, but only until i began to hate myself for what i had become. and then —

i stand in my yard watching the weather turn. it’s only drizzling but the clouds are dark and thick and the sky between is a swirl of green and gray and purple, like a fading bruise. the wind blows so loud, deep and rumbling like an extended burst of thunder. leaves blow sideways, gravel stirs and smacks my legs. and i just stand there.

i’ve been this way since childhood. many times i can remember my grandparents coming to pull me up off the front porch during violent thunderstorms or while weaker hurricanes passed. i’d sit; listen to the trees whistle; soak in the humidity until my clothes stuck to my skin; breathe.

everything smells so different when it’s clinging to itself.

after a while i retreat inside, but only for a second, to grab a joint. i wait for the wind to quell a moment, light it behind my hands and settle on the top step of my front porch to watch the world blow away.

i open the door. the sight of him knocks the wind out of me. his blonde hair is not ruffled and wild like the day we met; it’s slicked into a side parted pompadour, razored close on the sides. the beard is gone; he must have shaved a day or so ago, there’s only stubble covering his hard, angled jaw.

he wears a sharp white button up - sleeves folded up to the elbows, a thin black tie, suspenders, dark straight leg jeans bunched atop espresso colored wing tipped bluchers. i notice the small details: the moscot miltzen glasses, the simple leather watch, the silver band around his right ring finger almost as thin as the hoop in his right nostril.

he is one of the most beautiful men i’ve ever seen, just as he was when we met and he wore a tattered t-shirt, cut off jean shorts and well worn converse, but now he’s styled like an extra from boardwalk empire…

i want to mount him in the hallway.

he smiles at me, white and wide, high cheekbones leading into deep dimples that cut down his face. you look amazing he says in greeting, leaning forward and taking me in a one armed hug. so do you. in these heels my cheek settles nicely against his shoulder, my eyes falling on the roses tattooed on his throat, peeking out over his collar. i linger where i am; inhale his scent. i can’t tell if it’s the pomade in his hair, a light splash of cologne or his deodorant or soap, but whatever it is i suddenly wonder why the rest of the world doesn’t have the decency to smell the same.

he has a gift for me: a book of Pablo Neruda poems. i contemplate asking him to marry me before i find out he’s not absolutely perfect, decide against it. instead i ask how he knew Neruda was my favorite. he didn’t, he says, he only knew that he was his own.

the marriage proposal dances in my mouth all night long.

when you touch me.

you know when you’re in the shower, and you’re standing directly under the stream, and you lean your head to the side just a little and the water runs down your ear, down your neck, down your back, over your chest? it sort of beats in that particular spot above your clavicle in just a way that’s as titillating as it is soothing, and the warmth of the water engulfs your body and you don’t want to move? that’s what it’s like when you hug me.

except a shower doesn’t make me weak in the knees or wet between my thighs. it doesn’t make my stomach churn with butterflies. your hugs do.