Pen Pal

by J.T. Geissinger

When someone dies, you start counting all the ways you failed them.

I read somewhere that grief is more than an emotion. It’s a physical experience, too. All kinds of nasty stress chemicals get released into the bloodstream when a person is grieving. Fatigue, nausea, headaches, dizziness, food aversion, insomnia… The list of side-effects is long.

“Psychosomatic illness, they call it. Your brain literally makes you sick. Stress is that toxic.

“Even small dragons can still breathe fire.”

“Because I think you’re beautiful. Sad, a little bitchy, but fucking beautiful. I want you to come home with me tonight.”

“That’s what I thought. So come home with me. Let me make love to you. You need it.”

“My plan is to get you naked and find out how you sound when you come.”

“You awake?” “Yeah.” “Good. I need to fuck you again.”

“I’m gonna devour you, little bunny rabbit, piece by tasty piece. I’m going to eat. You. Up.”

“Take it. Take it. Take it. Take every fucking drop, my beautiful bunny, and tell me you love it.”

“The past is dead. So whatever happened, whatever you’ve done, just know that I’ll never ask you to explain yourself to me. I’ll also never judge you for something you did to keep someone else from getting hurt. No matter how bad that something was. Life is messy, and we all have our reasons for doing what we do. I don’t care about anything you did before we met.”

“Acknowledge that you know what you’ve got coming.” “Why?” “It’s called consent.”

How naïve we are when we’re young. How easily we trust that the sun will keep rising and setting, warming our days. And what a terrible blow it is to discover it isn’t the sun that makes things bright, but the people who love us, so that when they’re gone, everything is plunged into darkness.

“Here in this bed, this is what happens: I give. You take. You’ll take and you’ll take until you break, then you’ll beg me to break you all over again.”

It’s not enough. I want it harder, I want it faster, I want him to ruin me. I want him to make me forget my own name.

Love isn’t real without intent.

love means sacrifice.

I want it. I need it. I need him to impale me on it and fuck me senseless as he growls filthy things into my ear and perfumes my skin with his scent as he grinds against my body.

“I know you think I’m strong. But the problem with strong things is that they’re brittle. They can’t bend under stress. They just break.”

“I’m only amazing when I’m with you. The rest of the time, I’m nobody.”

You need your master to fill you up until you’re dripping with it.”

“Yes, good girl, you take it like a sweet little cum slut should.

loved it. I loved every second. Everything you did and said. Do you hear me? This is what I needed.”

“But you don’t have to be scared. I’ll catch you when you fall. I’ll always catch you.”

“Go on,” he says softly. “Why do I feel like I’m never going to see you again?” “Because you’re a drama queen. Now get your sweet ass out of my truck, bunny. Call me when you’ve got clarity.”

You are not controlling the storm, and you are not lost in it. You are the storm.

chaos isn’t outside us. It’s always within, even if we perceive it to be otherwise. You’re the chaos. You’re the storm. You’re the one creating the high winds and choppy seas you have to navigate. You’re the source of everything that’s happening. In other words, you’re the one with the power. The question then becomes what are you going to do with it?

Please forgive the rudeness, but my life is falling apart. Correction, it already fell apart. I’m just wandering around in all the broken pieces, kicking up dust and cutting my feet on shards of glass.

The visible chaos when an invisible heart breaks.

“I haven’t been able to breathe without you, bunny.”

“In what universe would I not be up for you feeding me champagne and chocolate under a fireworks-filled sky after giving me a mind-blowing orgasm?”

What we call memory is the intersection between imagination and fact. Memories are the stories we tell ourselves about the important events in our lives. In the telling, some details get lost, others embellished, until truth is closer to fiction.

In his lips, I taste forever.