Day 2 Creative Words- Mud Puddle

I wrote this when I was feeling bruised, when I was afraid of moving forward, when I wanted to run away rather than face my own feelings of not being enough. I am reminded today, as I reread this writing, that I have the choice to live in this fear, or to accept my imperfections, acknowledge my strengths and gifts, and remember that stumbling, not having all the answers, is what makes me human and therefore loving, loveable and loved.

This was written for a Valentines Day erotica poetry reading. It is a little racy, read no further if allusions to sexuality frighten, offend or disturb.

Mud Puddle

This mess of skin and cravings, once so sweet, has found it's inevitable bitterness. Please let me go back, back before the personal mythologies of us both, made murky our once magical mud puddle. Do you remember my love? When the water of our lovemaking lay still, translucent, atop the soft velvet of undisturbed silt. Do you remember when I put my finger in? Plunged it deep, through the wetness, till I found its spongy bottom. With a gentle come hither motion I gathered the slippery concoction, an alchemy of mothers moisture and matter, and lifted its stickiness, not fully experiencing the wet passage, not knowing I should savour it. How could I have fathomed that i was feeling it for the last time?  I held the gooey poultice on the tip of my finger, exposing it to the air. I don't know what I was thinking. I was a fool in love I suppose, hungry to show you what I believed to be the prize.  I spread it across my face. I remember how it slid on, no resistance, as though it had been waiting there under the water for this purpose alone. My skin was changed, cold against warmth. I felt met, nourished. I closed my eyes, and in that moment all that existed was that swath of skin, wrapped in slippery filth, our combined essence. When I opened my eyes, you were watching me. I saw in your expression something I imagine to be contempt. My heart decided that you despised my silly romantic ways. This is when I felt it. The silt paste began to suck my sweet nectar through my pores. My skin tightened, became parched. I felt the first crack appear in the mask. I wanted to take it back, wash it away, yes, go back in time. But what would you think of me then? Admitting to my foolish notions of romantic love meant letting go of a dream. The dream of being love drunk, intoxicated by sweat, saliva, and musky fluids, not only during penetration but all the in-between times as well. I must have looked a fool, walking along the path, dirty with this spent lubrication smeared cross my cheeks. I pretended, forced conversation and smiles, but by then I knew it was done, that we were done. As we past by the puddle on our way back home, I tried not to look. Hated myself for being so brash, stirring up this murky cloud in water that might have stayed clear even a few precious moments longer. In clear water our bodies communed, slid into and over, salty sweat on flushed skin, cavities engulfing swollen flesh, endless possibilities. Things not possible once the particles of mistrust, self hatred and defence have been stirred up, saturating, leaving an aqueous solution so thick that movement becomes disjointed and contrived. As we continued walking, no longer holding hands, I stifled tears and consoled myself with the idea that I took control of the situation. Rationalized that I sped up what time would have taken care of anyway. Eventually our fluids would have evaporated, our muddy silt would have bore the humiliation of a slow painful dehydration. Who knows how long we might have endured this, better to end it when it was sweet and wet. There is I suppose the chance that the rain may have come, may have reconstituted our love, but hoping makes me feel desperate. I can abide tragedy, but never desperation. No... It is better this way. 

12 days journal #107 has the question “What do you think about the idea of perfection?” in the front cover.