Remittance Girl's Blog, page 41

What you Don't Know

It is said by the terminally smug. in a dubious attempt to stop the rabble from eating brains instead of cake, that you don't miss what you don't know. A lack of concrete knowledge of how the crease of your neck so perfectly accommodates the wedge of my face, or how the blood sings in my ears when your cock grows hard in the curl of my fingers doesn't stop me from missing it acutely.

Moving, Standing Still

"Don't ever leave me." And even as I tucked the last of my things into the suitcase, brutalizing my own molars and smearing away the tears with the heel of my hand, even as I sat on the stubborn thing to get it closed, even as I noticed the overlooked and recently hand-washed pair of panties drying on the towel rail, I had to laugh. Leave him. How the fuck could I ever leave him? It was just too tempting to pitch my bottle of perfume at the mirror and watch the white-tiled hygienic world spider into fragments. I left the bathroom a sweet-smelling war zone. But there was no getting the smell of him out of my pores. No showering off his sweat or his saliva. No excising the skin that had felt the weight of his touch or the heat of his breath. I could have come and left and come and left a thousand times and never got the address right. Never rung the right bell. Never graced the welcome mat. And still not have left him. I was just one big open sore wandering the earth, looking for someone with enough balls to use the steel [...]