You've seen a few of the poems. But most of them feel too private. I write them for the man whose role I can't define with a single word, the man whose role is especially indefinable within the usual constructs of BDSM. I write for him, I write about him, I write because of him. He inspires me and pushes me. He prods and punishes and guides and instructs. He tells me what I've done and what he likes and what he wants, and when I look at poems from before he lured me into his dark den I can see ever so clearly how much I've grown.
There is so much I could say here, but it's late and I'm sleepy and I have a long drive on Thursday. There is so much to say but it is very intense, and I think I've been holding back because I've already overdosed on intensity lately.
The man who owns me but isn't my master likes lists, so here is a short list of things I could tell you about:
- a forced viewing of Phantom of the Opera (the musical) - I hated it when it first came out but sobbed through much of it this time. Think of the parallels with my current situation. Picture me bursting into tears when Raul first appears, his flowing reddish hair taking me by surprise.
- my orgasms have changed. I still cry, but...
- I disappeared for a few moments when the fiend was torturing my nipples - my first time.
I write to reassure him but I'm also trying to reassure myself.
I don't know what's real any more. I don't know what I feel any more. Perhaps I'm moving towards truly letting go, which would be the wisest thing all around. I act as if I love him and say I have a broken heart but maybe it's just a habit. Maybe I miss being in love as much as I miss him.
I'm falling asleep.
I'm not sure what I've written.
I'll probably regret it in the morning.
But the holidays are always a time for looking back at holidays past. And last Thanksgiving I was giving joyous secret thanks for the sweet, smart, sadistic man who filled my thoughts and ate up the minutes on my cell phone.
I miss him, damn it.
I'm not very good at letting go.