Day 13- Words

So most of this was typed in last night when I fell asleep. Sitting up. Twice. So I fell over and slept. Woke up with a sore throat and achy and tired. But here we are. 

It went like this: 
Words
Wet
Warm
Heated
Words- familiar story
I could just close my eyes and listen

Stainless steel smooth vibrator on buzz
inside
and out again
inside and out again
waking me up with that coolness that metalness that I so love.

It was opening up,
I was opening up letting thighs fall, butterflied on the bed.
It was swallowing metal,
Cunt was  swallowing metal,
swallowing words across the miles
it was breathing them in and keeping their hard on secrets tucked into my belly
it was breathing out into moan and sigh.

It was nipples in the air
under my fingers
speaking their own language
telling tales and tall stories
that cunt believed
without question.

Story time for the body
for the girl
for the slut
for the woman
these are all me, I am all them
and all of us were communing with words,
careening off some of them
like leather
belt
strike
like pool table
like bound
like pain
and blood
and coming

Story time for my cunt
words make her blush
and beg
without undue shyness
she wants what she wants
and wants it with a quickness.

Moving that cool pink metal buzz
in and out
out and in
made the rocking come
the moans and sighs
the sounds that tell me everything
I ever needed to know about this body

I keep brazen words, dirty words, tucked in my cheek like warm chocolate
slowly melting
until yes
one
two
three
orgasms
and clit was along for the ride
but shuffled sideways
these were whole cunt squeezed, spasms, some big, some small
leaving clit hungry but it's not my fault that clit
is so demanding
everything needs to be perfect, just so before I can slip into her
with my brain humming on just the right frequency so as not to cross
wires with the humming of the vibrator.
So clit is pissy now. Annoyed with me
accusatory. I tell her later- there's always later.

***

I am made of words. I always was. Words taught me how to slip by the sharp blades swinging down, duck under the weight of ugly need and secret myself away, hidden so deeply they never found me- not all of me- not the essence of me. I am made of words. Vowels and consonants form the bones, alphabet soup sings  in the spinal fluid. It was words that taught me how to touch myself. At 21 I followed simple directions in a borrowed copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves and at the end of those directions- orgasm showed up. I was mind blown. I found that if I did it again, touched myself, fingers to clit, moving in circles, slow at first then speeding up that I could take myself on a wild ride that spit me out shaky and surprised and wet and happy.

I make meaning of the world through words. I find this body's center again by naming my own losses, one by one by one. I follow the bread crumbs spelling out the way in and there I am again, waiting. I write words to make sense of me, to make me make sense, to be less crazy. I find certainty, faith, the wide open sky and wide open me when I put pen to page.

Tonight I listened to words. Was read to like a little kid and this was comfort. This was soft and nested and tucked in tight. This opened up the sky for me, took the roof right off the building. This was home.