Another Thread to Weave

Another Thread to Weave.

I pluck at a thread, I begin to tease it loose,

its tangled up tightly.

This thread needs to come loose, I need to find it's end

it's reason and along the way I will

stumble into and over what it feeds on

and shelters under.

This thread begins with sex.

(a pause for me to consider the subject in an objective way

for it leaves me blushing at the best of times)

I come to you with veiled eyes

Eyes that need exposing to me to see

That I am a woman, one at one with desire

And not at the mercy of desire.

I have veiled my eyes as I as yet

still live between places.

Scattered fragments that I pick up as and when

I happen to see them lying discarded.

And for others looking upon me

the veils hide the fragments that are missing

So they see nothing unusual and remind me

of the bits that I have forgotten along the way.

Grandly I hold you higher, able to see it all.

I like the way you bring me to my

being, a fierce but careful love.

With a passion still to be fully undressed.

And I like the undressing.

But it was not to be and the absence

of such desire, the absence of the reforging of the bond

I have with you has simply got me worried.

That something in its blossoming

has got caught by an early frost

And it lies heavy

with melted water in its fragile cells.

I expected sex. It was that simple.

I didn't get it and I am disappointed,

And lost in shame for wanting that so much.

Not at one with desire at all but at it's supreme mercy.

I feel tossed aside.

A two day old toy of a fickle child.

And I see very clearly, (though my mind

shut down and loaded silence once again

took centre stage, singing proudly in the sulk,)

Just how much I feed off others and

rarely off myself.

(It hurts to realise my gifts have been cast aside for others for almost all my life.

It hurts to realise my gifts have been cast aside for my own self harm for almost all of my life.)

I enjoy the pain of the shut down, oh how I enjoy the flagellation of the wallow,

Breathing blackness in a sunken ribcage.

Only the succulent globules of salt water spewing from my eyes

Allow a purer breath and a clarity to enter.

But my mind still spins with stories of other lovers,

and whilst nothing is defined there will be other lovers.

And I do not wish to be caught and kept nor do I wish to catch and keep

But oh, oh! how I long to be your only and you my only-madness I tell you

This love. For my beating heart, my beating love wants more, it is my sadness

That clings to you as my hero and my sadness and my mind

can dictate no longer.

So from sex and absence of sex,

A whole world opens to be looked apon.

The thread I pull seems endless.

My habits, my patterns, my motivations

That all need realising fully

And changing to allow acceptance for whatever situation I find myself in.

Another thread to weave into the shawl that will keep me warm.