Category Archives: Life of Nic


We didn’t have a plan.

I hate that.

It’s the afternoon of my last day in my hometown. I’m spending it with a very old friend, someone about whom I could easily say “we have nothing in common,” but we’re both here and I’m glad for it.

It’s a shock to see him drinking, though I know it’s not new. He laughs at that. Drinking isn’t all: apparently he’d decided–planned, even–to have sex outside of marriage. Plans fell through, but still, it was within the realm of possibilities. I ask about it–what changed, why he hadn’t sought other opportunities.

He says “It’s a lot easier for a pretty girl to just decide to have sex than for someone like me,” I know he’s turned down women before, so that isn’t all of it.

“Well, I’m right here, if you want to change that.”

His body language closes, tilts away. For a moment I’m not sure if he’s going to ask me to leave. “I can’t tell if you mean that seriously or not.”

“Yes, it’s a serious offer. I’m available, I wouldn’t want any kind of relationship–I’m driving four states away first thing in the morning.”

“What would you get out of it?”

“I like being responsible for people’s firsts–I don’t just mean sex. They look at you like you’re magic.”  Well, that, and I’d get laid, same as you.

He’s undecided. I don’t want to push (well, I do want to, because “maybe”s drive me nuts, but I know better). So we talk about other things.  Fail to decide what to do about dinner, drink too much to go get anything.

His roommate texts “Almost fifteen years of this, just have sex with her already.” It should annoy me, because fifteen years ago we had zero sexual tension. Hell, last year we had zero sexual tension. But today it is on the table and I can’t help but laugh.

Eventually it’s late enough I need to think about driving home. I ask if he’s hoping he won’t have to decide, just default to “no” when I leave. He says that’s not the case. Doesn’t say what is.

“Come here.” I pull him up next to me to kiss him. This is not how I kiss. This is a shadow, not a storm. I am giving him space, asking if it’s okay without a hint of teeth or claws (yet). This is not the storm but I can feel it, am greedy for it, there is something of thunder in every moment he says yes to.

Afterwards, I worry. Was I too pressuring? Might there be psychosocial effects he wouldn’t have predicted? I’ve had a lot of partners. (He didn’t ask how many, and I’m glad, because I don’t know.) Sex is something I enjoy, and yes, it’s a big deal but there’s nothing more attached to it than that. For him, it was a first, and I’m a little unsure why he said yes to it at all, least of all to me.

Turns out he was willing to answer that in a lot of detail:

Okay, why I said yes to you.  Honestly, part of it was that I had already said yes to somebody else.  Even though that didn’t happen, the fact was that I had already made the decision that it was something I was willing to do.  When I agreed to it with [redacted]’s ex, it was for a few reasons.  I found her attractive, yes, but much more important was how we’d had such an intimate relationship for so long that I wasn’t afraid of being embarrassed with her, and we were also in no danger of either one of us falling for the other and thus complicating things.

By complete coincidence, you just happen to meet those precise criteria as well, making you exactly the one other person in my life with whom I could imagine having sex with outside a committed relationship.  I didn’t realize that until you made the offer.  In fact, it hadn’t even occurred to me before that, though it seemed immediately obvious as soon as you said something.

I wanted to quell your fears over this, too.  I don’t want you to worry at all about leading me to do anything I was not prepared to do.  I’ve said that I’m responsible for my actions and I mean it; even had you come over with the express purpose of sleeping with me and you went into full seduction mode to get what you wanted, it still would have been my decision whether or not I’d do so.  Girls have done that, so I know I’m capable of saying no.

What I didn’t tell you at the time is that I’d been seriously considering it since you first offered, and I decided to go through with it the moment you pulled me onto the bed.  The whole time you thought I was afraid to take the next step was really just me stalling for my own sake.  I’d made my decision, but I wanted to give myself time to see if I’d get freaked out while I still had the chance to back out.  I’m sorry you had to put up with my insurance plan, but I wanted to be sure I wasn’t getting into something I’d regret.  When I finally said yes, that wasn’t me deciding I was ready to actually have sex.  That was me deciding I’d had enough time to change my mind on the decision I’d already come to.  No second guessing ever came up, no moments of serious trepidation in the hours since saying yes in my head, so I went ahead and said yes outside my head too.  I don’t want you to think I got caught up in the moment.  I decided long before the moment, then gave myself all that pre-moment time just in case.

And even though I’d never have thought of you as someone to have my first time with, in a way I’m glad that it was you.  You were always there for me all those years ago, even while you were going through far worse than I was.  Even if we’ve obviously drifted apart in the intervening years, you were probably the first person I was ever truly–albeit not physically–intimate with.  Somehow it feels appropriate that you were the first I was fully physically intimate with as well.  Perhaps that’s silly of me.

I know it wasn’t a big deal for you and I’m perfectly okay with that, but obviously it was kind of a big deal for me.  [Redacted] asked me today if I was happy I did it.  Happy is not the right word; it did not make me happy.  Neither did it make me unhappy.  Instead, I’d say I’m content with it.  It wasn’t some huge life-changing event or anything. I still feel like the same person, and I’m glad for that.  But I’m also relieved.  I’ve spent the last few years growing increasingly doubtful about my decision to wait, and now all that pressure, all that doubt and worry that’s been weighing on me is gone.

And that’s not even including long-familiar worries about my potential performance.  I know I was far from amazing, but unless you were merely an incredibly convincing actress, I feel okay about what I managed for a first time.  Perhaps with practice I can eventually become truly decent, though I imagine that day is still long in coming.

Whether I should have done it or not I cannot conclusively say (though I certainly don’t regret it now), but in the end that almost doesn’t matter.  The decision was made, it’s over, and there’s no sense worrying about it anymore.  So for helping me with that, I am genuinely grateful.

Oh, and it was really fun too.

All that said, I don’t want this to change our relationship because I value it greatly (yes, even despite the infrequent contact).  I’m fine with referencing it or joking about it or whatever; I feel no need to hide from what we did, but I also don’t want it to define our relationship.  I realize you probably weren’t worried about that, but I tend to overthink things.  I was thrilled to see you and I would have been entirely happy about that day even had we not slept together, and I’ll be just as happy to see you or talk to you again even with no expectation that it will ever happen again.

Okay, I think I’m done with this painfully long and meandering text.  TL;DR:  I loved seeing you, and I thoroughly enjoyed having sex with you.  I’m glad you came, and I’m glad you came.

Swing (or “‘Merica, Fuck Yeah!”)

Two women and a man walk into a Walgreens for condoms and rum. The Chef and I are giggling arm in arm. Chi looks back at us to ask if we want anything else. Whiskey? Champagne? I shake my head. I won’t be drinking at all: I prefer strange nights sober. I’m half-monitoring dirty looks coming our way. We’re not being obvious, not really, but we’re too familiar to be friends and it’s clear we’re not sisters.

Two women and a man get a stern glare from the cashier. She says she can’t sell us alcohol–three sober adults over twenty-one. She can’t refuse to sell the condoms. It isn’t worth an argument. Chi can run in to another store for liquor.

The Chef and I wait in the car this time. She twists around to talk to me. “So Chi’s never had a threesome before. I thought it might be fun to give that to him, before I go home.”

“Yeah? I could go for that.”

“Sure? I know you’re going through some shit, if you’re not down it’s cool.”

“I haven’t had sex in ages. We’re talking once in the last four months. I am more than down.”

“Well awesome. Let’s see if we can make this work.”

I’ve never been to a swinger’s club before. I’m not sure what to expect. We pile onto a couch and watch a woman in jeans and pink stilettos dance. I’m taking it in: low light, music, people milling around. The Chef speaks first. “Okay, we should negotiate things. Game plan, everybody’s limits..?”

“Well, you pretty much know what you can do with me by now. Um. No penetration without a condom–”

“Wait, does that include oral?”

“No, unless you want it to.” He makes a face. Clearly not. I turn back to the Chef. “I should have asked, is the stuff we do okay here?”

She turns to Chi. “This one’s a masochist.”


“Punching, slapping, hitting generally.” The Chef and I are grinning at each other.

“Punching? How hard are you talking about?”

I can’t help it. I burst out laughing. The Chef giggles, too. “However hard you think is too much, she’s gonna say harder.”

He looks at me, quizzical.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Chi and I keep looking to her, deferring. “These things are easier if one person takes charge. Like a facilitator. Do you mind–? That’s usually me.”

I don’t mind and neither does he. She sends us upstairs (“Get acquainted!”) so she can have a cigarette first. We both offer to join her. She shoos us off. “I don’t want to be rushed.”

We find a couch. I’m suddenly shy, looking at the video on the wall, at my hands, anywhere but at this boy I plan to fuck but haven’t touched. He laughs, and it brings my eyes to his face. “Hm?”

“No, just…Lucky me. You have no idea. I have a thing for redheads.”

I shake my head, try not to laugh. Everyone in this town has a thing for redheads. He’s put out a hand, but doesn’t touch. I’m not sure if he’s reaching to push my hair out of my face or pull me closer and I don’t wait to find out. I lean in to kiss him.

For an instant I wish I hadn’t. I ache, suddenly, everywhere. I’m raw from too long without physical contact. This isn’t enough. I love the way he’s kissing me, fierce and open, but it isn’t enough. His hands slide up my legs. Suddenly every inch of clothing is an offense, an affront. I can’t stand the thought of an inch that can’t be touched.

I help him peel off my dress, then everything else. There’s a pause–he’s never seen piercings like mine in real life, is staring with something like awe. Then his hands are on me, and his mouth. I am not clawing at him, not pulling his hair. I am too overwhelmed in this moment to trust myself. This is a fucking stranger and I want to tear him apart.

Then there are three of us. Another room. They joke that I’m a doll. It’s true. I don’t move, they move me. I am flipped, pulled, turned. Chi is hesitant. The Chef isn’t. Her manipulations push me into him. I’m gagging  on his cock. He pulls away. “It’s okay. Choking is okay.” I’m still gasping around the words.

His knees shift. “What?”

The Chef answers: “She says you’re good.”

I am scrambling for purchase, and for focus. I’m balanced on the exquisite edge of I need this and it’s too much, and it holds. I don’t know how but it holds. My throat is raw from failing to keep quiet. He’s fucking me, asking if it hurts, and yes, it does, and yes, I want it to.

A moment. The Chef is out of reach. I can’t breathe, the room spins. “I need a minute.” I roll away, try to breathe. They focus on each other. I’m in awe of their intensity, a little humbled that two people as strong as they are would include me at all.

They bring me back. I reach for her, am pushed onto him instead. I laugh. “You’re not letting me do anything!”

“Nope.” The Chef is grinning. “You’re our doll, remember?”

“Not a puppet?”

“Do you want a whole hand in you?” She pauses. “I have pretty large hands.”

Of course I want. A corner of me remembers that her hands are cut and burned. That there are gloves in my purse, lube in her bag. But mostly I don’t care. I’m willing to let her make this call. I like the roughness of it. She’s talking. Taunting. Telling me about my body, measuring the movement of her hands. She has words for both of us, all I can do is cover my mouth to hold back a scream.

She pauses. “Don’t let her do that again.”

Chi’s hands cover my wrists, but he doesn’t grip. He’s looking down at me, so I nod and twist to fit his hands more easily. He holds me down while she adds pressure. Shaking. Screaming. We’ve left lube across the room. “Right up to the last knuckles, but not past them.”

We need water. I need caffeine. We’re there for hours and most of a box of condoms more. Too much sensation for one night, and exactly what I needed.

‘Merica. Fuck yeah.

Being Single Sucks

My housemate is gently offering to set me up with approximately every guy she knows because “no one wants to be single.”

People used to tell me it must be a perk of polyamory: “At least if you have a breakup you still have someone else!” At the time, this irked me because it implied people are interchangeable, that as long as there’s some relationship in the tank, life goes on, and if there’s none, you’re stalled on the side of the road.  And then you can’t afford to be picky. You do what magazines say is attractive to “men”/”women” as a whole and the very first person who’ll stop for you is worth traveling with. The standard becomes “probably not a serial killer” because even obvious incompatibility is worth it for now, just to get on the road again.

Now, I’m single (Hey non-poly people: we can have All The Breakups at the same time, and end up single! How’s that for a perk?). And yeah, it’s not fun. I miss kissing. I miss the text messages that put a Cheshire-cat grin on my face. I miss having someone special. I miss being someone special. And dear God do I miss kissing.

But not enough to accept advances from a myriad of straight male friends I feel pretty much unexcited by. And what gets me is that this shocks people. I’ve heard “beggars can’t be choosers,” “but he’s not bad,” and “but isn’t it better than being alone?” Thing is, I’m not begging. “Not bad” isn’t the world’s most stellar recommendation. And if I couldn’t stand my own company, I don’t see how it’d be any good to inflict it on someone else.

I stayed in my last several relationships too long, for a lot of not-very-good reasons. They weren’t healthy. I wasn’t stable in them. Right now, aside from leveling up in the crazy cat lady class, I am stable. I can say, definitively, that alone is better than the wrong relationship and that pressure not to be alone makes leaving the wrong relationship that much harder. For the moment, single works.

Life goes on. I’m not stranded and I’m not particularly worried about it. I figure if my motivation for starting a relationship is to avoid being single rather than to create a good connection, it’s already failed.

That said, a delivery service for kissing would be nice.

Before you are dismantled

“Before you are dismantled, fixed and broke again you are not yet a lover. Remember on the right night and under the right light any idea can seem like a good one and love…love is mostly ill advised but always brave.” Yrsa Daley-Ward

“And here I thought you were jaded.” He’s teasing, gently. The skin’s been healed a while now, but it’s been cold enough to keep legs covered most days. Not everyone has seen.

“The worst. I eat hearts for breakfast.”

“Seriously. I’ve never heard you say anything about love that didn’t sound like you hate it.”

I’m not sure what to say to that. I do hate it. It’s monstrous. It changes you. One day you’re at sea all filled with the thrill of wind and open water, daring every storm to just try; it’s never seen anything so fierce as you, so strong. And then out of nowhere you’re cast out like a stowaway, like vermin, like nothing. You’re left alone God knows where with no keel and no sails and no anchor. People are talking but what language you don’t know. They broke your compass and your heart and Broca’s area, too. You wonder if you’ll ever learn to fit the shape of yourself again (You will, it’s just a new shape and it has something of a limp).  If you’re even human, anymore. If you’re not just walking jetsam with water in your ears. They didn’t even keep your bones for scrimshaw, after all that. Not even your bones.

I hate it so much. Because I can’t quite stop forgiving. Because I can’t quite say it wasn’t worth it. Because life does, in fact, go on.

I’m using tattoos to reclaim parts of myself, a bit at a time. It was easy to feel weak for having been in love. To treat myself with disdain for it. Ill-advised is putting it mildly, when you’ve carried the wreck of a memory long enough. It is easy to try to shame it away until it is not part of who I am. But it is also brave. And I still can’t quite say it wasn’t worth it, either time.

The text is an excerpt from Artichokes by Yrsa Daley-Ward. Her book, bone, is most definitely worth picking up.

My other tattoos are here:

Don’t touch me, a how-to guide for handling my panic attacks from Beckett


i like my body when it is with your, a reminder that sometimes the body is so quite new a thing.

In Memoriam

This would be a prayer, if I prayed.

Let me be not alone. Let the broken parts be whole.

Let me be rocks and water.

Let me be not alone. As if Job was not still alone in the end. As if grief were a pit you could climb out of. As if learning what you can survive didn’t come with a terrible price, as if it did not wake a terrible pride that will forever stir the dust of old memories with its pacing.

Let the broken parts be whole. As if healing did not leave scars. As if mended parts could ever forget how easily they were broken. As if a day could pass without running fingertips along the fault lines. As if nerves grew back.

As if faith did not sometimes say dear God take my faith away. It is making me go on. I can’t go on.

I could say, “He would have been thirty.” I know better. If it hadn’t been that day it would have been another. The next year, or the year after that. Mental illness can be terminal. We don’t like to say it but it’s true.

I don’t mean to think of him. It takes so little. A shock of red hair, a crooked smile behind a beard, a voice made clear from years of speaking on stage. Sometimes it’s nothing to do with him at all–I read an essay about adding to the boundaries of human knowledge, wonder what he would say about the boundaries of the arts. There’s still the hike of anticipation for conversations that are never going to happen. Thinking “he would love this,” or “he would be so disappointed.” Would, not would have. After long enough you’d think that impulse would stop. I wish it would. I’m terrified it will.

I’m so afraid of losing what little I have left of him. The exact hazel of his eyes, the cadence of his voice. What if I forget the names he chose for daughters he never had? If I lose the slow, serious talks about his church, his faith, his god? The mistakes we didn’t make (I wish we had). The two a.m. shouting matches, the hurt, how easy it was for both of us to forgive.

The one letter I keep coming back to. “You’ve forgiven me more times than God.” Not an apology, not thanks, just that. “You’ve forgiven me more times than God.”

For him, I believed in always. Because of him, I don’t.

But none of it matters and it was so, so long ago. And I haven’t let it go.

Let me be rocks. Let me be water.

Red in Tooth and Claw

He’s puppy-eager, all sweetness and smiles. We haven’t made plans for after the show, haven’t ruled them out either. He suggests a wine bar. I don’t drink wine. “Well, I kinda have a surprise for you, if you want to come back to my place? Maybe. Do you like surprises?”

I don’t like surprises, as a rule, but he’s sweet and eager enough that I’m willing to humor him. It’s an under-bed restraint, the kind with velcro cuffs. He’s suddenly shy, showing it to me. “I don’t know if you like– I don’t want to freak you out.”

I laugh. I know I shouldn’t. It’s good that he’s cautious; he barely knows me. I move in close to him. “I’m not freaked out. Though I don’t know if you’re a top or a bottom?”

“Um. Top, usually. But I like both. You?”

“Total switch.”

“So how about you tie me down first, and we’ll switch later if you want?”


I kiss him, partly because I feel awkward and unsure what to say, mostly because I’ve been wanting to since he first showed his teeth. I’m in heels. Even pulling his hair to tilt his face up, I have to lean down to reach him.

He shuffles. “The problem with being short.”

“It’s not a problem.” I step out of my shoes. But–“I’m on my period. Is that going to bother you?”

“What? No. Wait–does it mean I can’t eat you out?”

“Depends how you feel about blood, I guess.”

I’m wary. Plenty of men have told me they have no problem with menstruation–until they see or feel or smell blood and they’re suddenly shocked and disgusted. But we’ll see.

He’s cuffed to the bed, tense and straining. I am holding him by his hair and one wrist. I’m kissing him. There are a thousand things I want to do with him, and all of them have to wait. I can’t stop kissing him. I can try. I can tease, pull just out of reach and let him strain against my grip in his hair to reach me. But then I look at him, so open and hopeful. But then he says “please” and I want to devour him. This is still kissing, isn’t it? If it’s mostly teeth, if I’m not sure whether he’s tilting his head to get closer or because he’s afraid I’ll break skin?

“What are you up for?”

“Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

I lean back on my heels, try not to sigh. He should know better. It’s a conversation we should have, but right now we’re both giddy with sex. Right now, if he can’t be specific, I can.

“Are you ticklish?”


I graze my nails across the soles of his feet. He thrashes. “Oh, shit!” I keep tickling. I’m listening for it. It doesn’t take long for him to choke a “stop!” out through helpless laughter.

“Stop?” My hands are already off of him.

“I mean–you don’t have to.”

“You said stop. I do have to.” I move over him. “How do you feel about biting?” My mouth is an inch from his skin.

“Okay. Good.”

He tenses as my teeth sink in. He is moving in small waves, making small sounds. He marks easily. My teeth leave rising welts above a tattoo, below his ribs, across his collarbone. He’s moving but so quiet. I look up at him. He’s biting his lip. “What, I’m not biting hard enough?” I laugh. “If you need more…” I bite hard enough to make him hiss.

He laughs. “Am I bleeding?”

“I’m not biting that hard.” I bite harder.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck” Curses rattle out of him like a screen door in a storm, and God, what it does to me to see him so nearly unhinged.

I have one hand on his cock to anchor me while I drift over him. I take him in my mouth, only for a moment. I don’t want to take my eyes off his skin, off the lines my fingernails are leaving. He’s making sounds that aren’t words. I’d rather hear words. “What do you want?”

“I want you to fuck me.” He’s breathless. It’s beautiful.


He lets his head thump back on the mattress. “In the car.”

I laugh. There’s no chance I’m getting dressed and walking across the street in the middle of the night to rummage through his car for a condom. I know I’ll want one later, but for now–“you want to fuck me?”


“That’s too bad.” His whole body jerks. I’m kneeling over him, teasing, just out of reach. He’s begging. Please, and your skin is so soft, I can’t stand not touching it and please. And I tease. At some point he’s beyond caring if we use a condom or not, or maybe he knows he can say whatever he wants and it won’t make a difference. And I laugh again. It’s a delight to have him this desperate. He’s begging me to kiss him, to just let his hands free, to let him get me off. I let him loose; I want his hands on me as much as he does.

He slides his fingers into me, and I stop trying to think at all. We are lines and angles and waves. I’ve lost track of my hands, try not to notice it, focus on his. I’m too loud, too shaken. It’s a struggle to sit up, after. “Oh. Fuck.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re pretty much covered in blood.”

He looks down. It’s not much of an exaggeration. I’m bracing for disgust, my own as much as his. He grins. “Badass.”

I’m too floored to speak. His mouth is on mine before I have to. We keep going. Keep saying it’s time to run down to the car but we wear ourselves out first, don’t break apart until dehydration forces us to.

We look like the aftermath of a slaughter.

*I always, always carry condoms in my purse. Regular, latex-free, textured, plus a few packets of lube. But I wasn’t carrying magnums. This oversight has since been remedied.


If you follow me on Twitter you know I’m a mess right now.

There are posts I want to write. About going to a swinger’s club (it was awesome!), about how my neuropathy and sex life intersect, about trust and desire and prayer and how language affects behavior and perception. I’ve started more drafts in the last six weeks than the two years previous. It’s ridiculous. (I’ll write anything to avoid writing my thesis, truly.)

The thing is, life is being consumed by things I don’t want to write about. I’m hunting for a job in my field, trying to find an apartment (viewing two in the next two days), getting divorced. These are not things I want to do all at the same time. Plus grad school. My classes this term are excellent, which means I actually have to work hard at them.

My mental health is shot. I love writing on here but guilt over not doing it enough is a stressor I don’t need. So. I’ll be on twitter. I’ll still be going to burlesque shows (priorities!). The blog is on hold until I can imitate a functional adult a little more convincingly.

I’ll be back by Passover, probably sooner.


She exists in moments.

She could have stepped out of a renaissance painting. Rossetti told her one too many times to pout and she walked straight off the canvas in a cloud of red hair.

“She’s straight. Definitely 100% completely straight.”

There’s a freckle on her lip. It pulls me in. I want to brush my thumb across it, draw her mouth to mine. I’m staring. She is watching me staring.

“She’ll soak up as much attention as you give her though.”

The day is clear and bright as only sunlight in the mountains can be. Her nakedness is surreal, glorious. There is a weight to her movement. The folding of her limbs is the shifting of continents. It makes me quake.

She slides into the water next to me with a sigh. Her fingers graze my thigh more than once. Not an accident, her goblin grin tells me that.

I am thinking about marking every last one of her freckles with my teeth.

She must have thousands.

In which I fail, and fail, and fail

“Did you want to try to have sex, before I go?”

I don’t know. That is, I don’t, but I don’t know why I don’t. I’m frustrated and lonely and I crave sexual touch. It’s been months. “I don’t know. No, I think–” I’m inarticulate, nervous. Is it going to be a fight, if we don’t? Is it going to be a fight if we do?

“It doesn’t have to be like standard PIV. You could fuck me, or try punching or electricity. If you need to feel in control.”

My gut twists. I don’t want, not at all. It’s visceral, shocking. I am not like this. I’m babbling. I say definitely no but I’m trying to explain and it doesn’t make sense. I have to say it three times before he understands.

“What about just kissing? You like kissing.”

I do. It’s been months. I feel pressured and miserable and scared mostly, afraid because there’s a delay between reaction and reason. I can feel it, the gap. What I want/don’t want is inchoate and the words I give it feel like excuses, like lies.

I’m trying. I don’t want to say no because I want to want it, because I think maybe the fear will dissipate and excitement can take its place if I just try. Like riding a roller coaster.

It doesn’t work, the kissing. I try. My body wants to fold into itself, there’s no enjoyment, but I try. And then I can’t. I bury my face in his shoulder and apologize.

Questions. “Why” and “what’s going on” and on and on. It feels like pressure. I feel like I deserve it. I snap at him. I don’t want questions I just want to curl up quiet and alone. He deserves answers, it isn’t fair, but my mind isn’t clear enough. So I snap. So we fight.

He only suggested it because I said I was frustrated the night before. He thought I was pressuring him. I thought he was pressuring me. He pulls apart my words and calls them inconsistent. I don’t see it, don’t know how to explain.

This is what I mean by not working.

Missing Piece

I’m lonely. I miss you.

The words are wrong. How do you say them? To whom? Words communicate. Loneliness is is what happens when you can’t. We have a word for which there can be no word. It feels broken to say, a message without a receiver, but what else can you do? You say them. Not to communicate, to confess.

I’m lonely. I miss you. Pointless. Utterly pointless.

I said them anyway.