I'm bipolar. I blog about it. I also blog about sex, theology and atheology, funny shit and sad shit, books, music, feminism, and love. Mostly love.

Thursday, March 29, 2012


When she kissed him everything went warm, and a strange, tickling sensation walked its way down her spine, one vertebrae at a time. That feeling settled right on the flatness before her big, rounded bottom. Her neck tightened and she didn't need to breathe. She grabbed his shirt to keep from falling. He put his hands cautiously in her hair and on her back, pulling her closer; and the rest of the room, which she had once been so very aware of, fell away, dripping, dripping, dripping, slowly until nothing was there anymore. Even the floor felt like air--like clouds.

It was dark in there, like it should have been. Deeds deemed dark need to be done under the mourning veil of darkness. Devil in Darkness and Lord in Light. Just don't remember my face, please. And even when you stop feeling shame--when you just feel what's right to you, old habits die hard. Even the prettiest people want to hide behind darkness, even the boldest.

She loved him that night. She believed what she wanted to believe. She believed in the sweetness of his breath, in the sincerity of his voice, and the warmth of his arm draped over her. What purpose that belief served was and is unclear to her. She knows only that these existed for some greater purpose to her: Breath. Voice. Warmth.

These beliefs may have been unfounded, but it is better to believe and be burned than to doubt and be diffident. If she listened for the lies in his words, she would go mad. If she waited for him to make a move, she'd be on the shelf. She knew that the only way to survive her love, was to have faith in what could not betray her: tangible, beautiful feeling.

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