[freewrite: big]
Mar. 23rd, 2011 07:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dreamwitchIn a given day-- you think-- happiness makes you stupid. You go out into the sunshine, and you forget, or maybe you remember, does it matter which?
He smiles at you. Warm like candy, or blankets, or sand. He's like sand, burying you far away from the ocean, and you don't care if you suffocate. Is happiness a cloud? you think. Is there a limit? You don't want to find out.
In a given day, you walk brisk and straight; your shoes hit the ground in precise measurements. You want to feel pain but you can't; something's stopping you. There's a barricade between your chest and the empty world-- there's iron bars keeping the shadows back. Is that happiness?
His kisses are awkward and small, and his shoulders are too wide. His hands are too rough. His teeth seem too large when he smiles, and you stare and stare. There's a mole on his cheek, and a bump on his nose. There's yellow in the blue-brown mess of his irises. His hold is too strong, and his voice is too deep and you wake up in a sweat. Are you happy? he says.
You never thought you'd like such a big man. Someone this extravagant and shining, this dense with sunlight-- how could you own them? You can't. Can you?
Your mother likes him, of course she does, and his own mother hugs you like she wants to adopt. You feel lost in normality, in an alternate universe of daylight outings and something like respect. He strokes your still dark hair compulsively, even asleep. He takes up the sky and the earth and he assumes you're fertile; some men are potent enough, and he is uncomfortably much a man.
He is too big, too male, too blond, too certain. He holds you like he means it, because he always means it. You always wanted an uncertain, passionate lover, someone to hurt you, someone like a dagger. You never wanted a broadsword. You never wanted a king but a jester. What is this, then? Is this happiness? You never wanted this, so how could you know? And yet, he told you: "you're mine" he said, looking you up and down. He settled, he conquered, he sprawled.
You're my secret dagger, he says. My moon woman. My silver queen, he says, and you believe it. Beautiful, bewitching, beguiling, besotted, beheaded, beneath him. You're beneath him again. Is this happiness, then, the knowledge you're not crushed beneath his weight?
"I want you," he says, and he believes it completely, because that's the kind of man he is. He doesn't need words, of course. He only needs his rough, big hands, clutching your breasts. Kneading, pushing, pressing further in. You need words; stupid, unreliable things.
"You'll survive," you say. You're sorry, then.
He smiles at you. Warm like candy, or blankets, or sand. He's like sand, burying you far away from the ocean, and you don't care if you suffocate. Is happiness a cloud? you think. Is there a limit? You don't want to find out.
In a given day, you walk brisk and straight; your shoes hit the ground in precise measurements. You want to feel pain but you can't; something's stopping you. There's a barricade between your chest and the empty world-- there's iron bars keeping the shadows back. Is that happiness?
His kisses are awkward and small, and his shoulders are too wide. His hands are too rough. His teeth seem too large when he smiles, and you stare and stare. There's a mole on his cheek, and a bump on his nose. There's yellow in the blue-brown mess of his irises. His hold is too strong, and his voice is too deep and you wake up in a sweat. Are you happy? he says.
You never thought you'd like such a big man. Someone this extravagant and shining, this dense with sunlight-- how could you own them? You can't. Can you?
Your mother likes him, of course she does, and his own mother hugs you like she wants to adopt. You feel lost in normality, in an alternate universe of daylight outings and something like respect. He strokes your still dark hair compulsively, even asleep. He takes up the sky and the earth and he assumes you're fertile; some men are potent enough, and he is uncomfortably much a man.
He is too big, too male, too blond, too certain. He holds you like he means it, because he always means it. You always wanted an uncertain, passionate lover, someone to hurt you, someone like a dagger. You never wanted a broadsword. You never wanted a king but a jester. What is this, then? Is this happiness? You never wanted this, so how could you know? And yet, he told you: "you're mine" he said, looking you up and down. He settled, he conquered, he sprawled.
You're my secret dagger, he says. My moon woman. My silver queen, he says, and you believe it. Beautiful, bewitching, beguiling, besotted, beheaded, beneath him. You're beneath him again. Is this happiness, then, the knowledge you're not crushed beneath his weight?
"I want you," he says, and he believes it completely, because that's the kind of man he is. He doesn't need words, of course. He only needs his rough, big hands, clutching your breasts. Kneading, pushing, pressing further in. You need words; stupid, unreliable things.
"You'll survive," you say. You're sorry, then.
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