don't go; tell me that the lights will change.

I learned this puzzle long before I ever learned the touch of a man.
The first mystery I solved with my hands.

At sixteen the solving was writ in my bones.
Here it lives on between the tissue of my fingers.
A metacarpal memory of every edge and face.
An oracle foretells a picture of a coloured cube
with all its sides succinct.

Amnesic when I think of you, of you, of you and you.
While the memory of this pattern transcends.
Every grope grab throttle and squeeze.
I read it in a book.
A phalanx never forgets and the answer is always here.
Our memories are not the same.
All the times I left and have been left and will leave again are gone and will go.
And this cube will see it's solved state ad infinitum while I work on the solution to you.

But a man is not a six sided shape.
And every one a new sequence of turns and slides to solve.
A button, a belt, a zipper.
left turn on the back face
ouch he says.
down turn on the front
and he moans.

An abscence of an answer. A means to an end.
I peel off the stickers and put them back on the right way.
I'm a cheater where it counts the most.
Everywhere.

wine & dine

No brass knocker to know.

Through a crack 

in the glass 

A thread wide gap 

to pass

I came into your house.

No bars on your windows

No locks on your doors

Try bridle my cogent approach

But you will not 

keep me

out.

you give me a feeling.

Because in one hour it will be Valentine's day, I am once again in a cycle of thought called "why am I always single?" It annoys me to think about but I can't leave the cycle until I write it out loud. Sorry if you're reading, this will probably annoy you too. But to decide if I have a problem or not, it must be written.

I verily, truly, honestly and deeply believe that in some form I have an addiction to sex.

Growing up I wanted a boyfriend.

In junior high I liked a boy. He wanted my best friend instead. 

This is the time a friend told me to stop looking for a boyfriend, and just let it happen.

So I did.

In high school I liked a boy. He wanted another girl instead.

I was already halfway through a process of becoming someone who would never have a thought about wanting a boyfriend. I never wanted him as a boyfriend. But I liked the way he looked and felt and the way he looked at me.

He was not my first love, but he was the first.

I left the city. My evolution into a hard hearted girl edged onward.

Within the past two years I had completed my transformation into an ascetic of sorts, wholly abstaining from romantic love. I dedicated all the time I would have given to a man to my art and my work. And it has been good. When I slept with a man, it would be him who wanted more and I would be the one who laughed. Now it was me who got to say, "well maybe you shouldn't have put out so fast."

Then another man came into my life who would make me question my austerity. 

I think I wanted to be with him. Then I left the city.

And I've come to know why having a boyfriend will not work for me.

I change my mind so often and require so many different personalities in my bed that I could never promise myself to only one. 

So I will not do that to a man I care about. I will stay alone. I will take what I need from men as they come and go.

I can't be with you because you will not hurt me. And I need the hurt to be happy.

I've been thinking about my sexuality and why it is like this. Once I thought I was just kicking back at society. But it goes deeper.

I was in kindergarten when I got brought into a dimly lit room with five other children. We were told we were in this special class because we were a little bit smarter than the rest. The teacher read us a little picture book about a little girl and an older man. The man was her stepdad and offered the girl toys in exchange for weird acts of touching and more gifts to keep the touching secret. After the reading, we were told if we had experiences like the little girl to tell another adult and not keep it hidden. 

I thought I was put in this class because I was a good reader. That's what my mother told me. But I'm thinking it could have been because they thought I had been assaulted myself, which I had never been. Historically, children who have been assaulted exhibit some form of sexual behaviour very early so I think I might have been conducting myself in a way that made my teachers think this.  Essentially I've been at least noticeably sexual since as young as six just because I was fucked up all on my own. Growing up I only hung out with boys. I remember playing in a large toy block shelter with a boy and getting pulled out by a supervisor in my daycare. I wasn't allowed to play alone with the boys in a spot that no one could see. I had my own room and tv at my grandparents house and when I went there for the weekends, I would stay up and watch Sexual Secrets, keeping the volume low. The show wasn't even pornographic, I just was enthralled by nudity and the concept of intercourse. At an age when internet still blocked up the phone line and I was only allowed on the computer for a choice amount of time, I would spend it looking at strange cartoon pornography. In high school there was a point where I stopped getting invited to parties because I would go and just try to fuck someone the whole time. After I lost my virginity I never wanted to fuck again. I was in the midst of an eating disorder that was destroying my mind and wouldn't leave room for me to even think about sharing my body with someone. It was my addiction to non-eating. When I stopped starving myself from food, I realized how hungry I was for touch. I put one addiction in the place of another. Now I'm an artist and everything I make is about sex. I animated a loop of squares two days ago and although visually there is nothing sexually suggestive, I realized the colours I had chosen were all flesh tones. I've been thinking a lot about how I'm going to get through my semester abroad.  Because I don't sleep with strangers. I haven't slept with anyone at my art school at home so I imagine it will be similar here too. I thought about going to a strip club. Men go in and pay for dances and extras, so why can't I? Wouldn't it even be better since I'm a woman? I remember some of the dancers back at the club I used to work in actually being very pretty. But would I be so desperate to pay for sex? If men pay for women to take control of them, if they pay for the opportunity to submit to a woman... could I do the same to a man? Does such a thing exist? Am I in such a backwards spiral of thought that I can't accept the idea that it would not be so hard to find a man to hit me in bed as I think? This is where I will truly understand how deep my addiction lies.  I decided to write off men for now to keep my mind off it and pursue women instead just to think about something else for once.

I met a man on the street today who asked me for the time. He never told me his name but I feel like I know him all the same. As our paths crossed along the icy sidewalk, he waved for my attention and pointed at his wrist. I looked at my watch and proclaimed, "Seven-thirty." When I matched my gaze to his, I saw the circuitry of his brain firing off messages of perplexity. A muscle below his left eye twitched and his lips began to part, but he never said a thing. I left the man here; a dumbfound statue with a limp jaw and brows tensed in something between thought and struggle.

It was only three o' clock. What a marvel it is that one would put such trust in a stranger to give them the correct time. I didn't lie though, not truly. This watch had been broken for years. I found it when we rummaged through my grandmother's home for items of value after she died. It read 7:30 then, just as it reads now. The rest of my family passed over the useless timepiece but its leather strap and golden bezel captured my eyes. I saw worth. Even a broken watch is right twice a day and I have always loved the feel of leather. 

In how the wood of your branches held me
while blindly searching with the tips of my feet
for holes that would hold.

With eyes to the sky and hands that never left your trunk,
my fingers slid between the bark and across your front
I raised myself.

Through your canopy I emerge and respire
an air so pure it floats

One arm outstretched, one arm to hold
Balanced between safety and sweetness.

I take your peach in my fist like a pearl in a ring.
A stone set in gold.
and eaten whole.

On the descent
a hollow in the bole.
I found the honey in your tree.
and never tasted something so dirty and sweet.
Then still climbing down, it clung to me.
In a long sticky wire all the way to the ground.
That shone with an amber that left the sun wanting.
And with no shade to hide her
the rays that she sent
 illuminated that tacky gold
against all her will.

A choice for power to reach lightyears beyond,
comes not with the strength for control.

I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.

it's a little alarming how much you've gotten me to feel towards you.
i think you're the one who will make me into the crazy girl.
i think about the things you said to me and write them into pretty images.
"why are you in this room?"

i woke you up the last night of the ski trip because i wanted you and it was the first time we could be alone. i crawled up behind you and told you my secrets. i thanked you for waking up because i was filled with fear that you wouldn't. you were surprised that i liked you. because i've never shown an interest, and to be honest i never really was before that trip. but no one else made me feel comfortable the way you did. when everyone looks at you like a sex object, those that don't seem to stand out.

i think you should know when i say i like violence, i don't mean i like to hurt others. i've never been in a fight. all i know is the violence i inflict upon myself. it's how i hold myself when no one will. there is safety in pain. it's the only thing that's certain.

i think i'll miss you a lot. mostly in how our bodies fit together perfectly like a puzzle of two pieces. i wish you were here. i want you to talk to me, but i don't think you will. i cried when i got here because i lost my phone and the airline lost my bags. i whined to you because i needed to talk to you.

i never talk to boys first. ever.
but then i found my phone. and my bags came the next day.
and i stopped crying.


you were my tenth. i think that makes you special. i'm sad you weren't my last before i left. but it's good i got to eleven because i learned just how much i really like you. i wished he was you the whole time. i never regret sleeping with a man. it's always better than not. i told you i think i might be sick with nymphomania. but i fear this one will push you away. i'm very afraid.

i think you broke me. i never had feelings for men who didn't use me or ignore me. you're some kind of first. "but maybe don't go falling in love." i'm really going to try.