every sigh, groan, yip, shudder is my prize
fingers inside you, exploring the velvet wet,
my muscular tongue spelling out pleasures, bucking,
contracting around the fingers of my dancing hand,
just the start,
one orgasm merely tells where your nerves best crave,
know every inch of you before the night is done
every vanilla variety
for then the pleasure can really begin.
I have had a revelation. I handle emotional pain the same way I handle physical pain. At first the pain is new and sharp. I drown in it. With physical pain I can shift it into pleasure, and that’s what makes me a masochist. That learned ability to shift one to the other.
With emotional pain I use it as fuel for poetry or songs. But long term pains don’t go away. They fade from my consciousness. I am shifting the emotional pain into a room and closing the door. I do the same with physical pain.
I acknowledge it, but if it is debilitating beyond my control, I shift it to my subconscious. My subconscious then handles it while my conscious mind goes about its business. With physical pain, this works and allows my body to function at a higher level for longer periods of time. With emotional pain it doesn’t work as well.
I need to unpack those pains and work through them. I can use my subconscious for some of that, employing my dreams to work through issues the same way I assign problems to my subconscious to work through. That results in occasional crying jags as my subconscious pushes something to the surface to be dealt with.
This process is thorough and I learn much about myself and my actions but it takes years to expiate the pain. With Sara it took eight years, a catalyst and then two more years to make it where I can remember without losing my shit, mostly. But I understand each emotional piece, each why and each feeling.
So that’s my realization. That’s why my pain lingers, and why people can see me as cold. My pain is a deep river flowing beneath the surface, only occasionally coming to the surface in ways other than writing.