Hello. Wanna know something that makes me wanna blow my brains out publicly and with no regard for the clean-up, emotional and physical? Eye contact. Specifically when I’m clearly “avoiding” it (uninterested, wanting to be left alone, giving them one of their beloved social signals, etc.), yet those squishy, vulnerable spheres insist on bothering me. Boring into my skull like it’ll change my mind. It’s repulsive. Strikes me as nagging; a trait I find unbearable—one of the traits you decide is absolutely unacceptable for potential friends or lovers. Admittedly, I have many no-go traits. Turns out I’m just not fond of people. Even once I know them.
But we all have exceptions, don’t we? Someone wandering through our foundations and checking the wood, caressing the beams—but never grappling or climbing. Never trying to, unlike most. Who force their way through, curiosity turning into insistence. Possession. Entitlement. Urging them to clamber up, around, inside, ‘til they’re banging on walls with the gall to think they’re breaking through. When, really, they’re screeching at you through plasterboard and insulation. No better than the dead rodents, which I’d much prefer.
& that exception, with curiosity of the rarest kind—genuine—notices the screeching walls with you. Encourages you to bang on the walls, or sees no issue with you already doing so. They’ll sit at the table, listening to the creaks and groans you’re used to, commenting on how strong you like your tea. You’ll say you need strength, the kind that’s warm. “That sounds stupid. You’ve got a much nicer place, by the way.” “It really isn’t, you’re just too used to yours.” After a while, you’ll realise you let them into your house. And you want them to keep the keys instead.
Or maybe that’s just me. Exhaustedly eager to relinquish control to the right person; to the exception. Only the exception. Everyone else can die in the walls they cheated their way into. While my exception can push me against one. Keys chucked on the counter in desperation, or poking through his pocket, or calmly left where they’re meant to be. Taking the control I give. Have been waiting to give. Not only all day, but for all these years, left unexplored by & undesiring of faux-dominators just wanting to see their reflection in your pretty, glassy, inferior eyes. & I don’t know if it’s better or worse, that they don’t acknowledge you have foundations at all. Sigh. How hopeless, most people are.
“Where’s your head at?” he’ll soothe, attuned to my distractions; he wishes me to be tethered to him instead.
“Somewhere violating,” I cling harder, digging into skin thicker than mine, “and full of eyes.”
So he has me in the dark, light useless to his expert memory of my figure and it’s submission. Willing, severe, writhing, etc. Two tamed animals reverting to suppressed instincts and nocturnal tendencies, meaning: comfort found only in the night. I simply know the feeling of his stare, the only one I want. The only one that knows how to look at me; how to see me. In the dark, in obscurity, in the ugliest parts of ourselves. Revealed. And devastating. ‘Cos I look back.
He bites me: I think of his smile when I speak of gouging eyes out.
He holds me still: I think of the well-hidden force as he struck wall-screecher skulls.
He breathes me in: I think of his perfect perversion—unachievable—by faux-dominators.
Only this is acceptable, I decide. This and the dead rodents.
