ah to be torn towards and torn away. After each time of being close I am pushed toward and pushed away. Wanting to be closer, wanting to run. The dichotomy throbbing, pulsing like the tides. Ripping friction from lonely wanting to celebrating alone. Rhythmic swings - the pattern of life and living. Like his thrusts, deeper, intensity, increasing with my heartbeat, my breathing. Everything in and out - him inside me, the blood in my veins, the air in my lungs, the fear in my heart. From feeling trapped outside myself to feeling trapped inside myself. Constant struggle. Back and forth. Like that slight area (difference) between the sun feeling like a comfortable warm and a sweaty incomfort. The breaking point is so slight, indescernable. Inconsistant veriables can easily swing. hold me. Comfort me. Be with me. Hold on to me.
undated journal entry, circa mid to late 90s