I have sent you the letter that I want to you to see. It is practical and wise, full of smooth, measured lines and things that are best for us both.
I am now writing you the letter that I wanted to write. It is not smooth. It is not measured. I am writing on my skin, down the length of my leg and up again, higher and higher, to my warm, wet cunt and the hollow places that you kissed. I will start at my hip and scrawl, “To my Love,” on that curved, hard bone. I will write of the silence my tongue couldn’t fill; of the ugliness and envy I swallowed just to keep your taste in my mouth. I understood your responsibilities, your conditions, your life. I embraced my confinement in a small, lush room.
I was your escape you said as you kissed my thigh. It was creamy and white when you did—not smeared with ink, but clean and sweet, a tactile expanse of improbable trust. Your words poured into my skin and diffused, filling my cells with your precise, exacting love. Alchemy. Magic. I became an extension of you.
You cast a spell with every lick and bite. Every time your fingers drifted between my thighs, in bars and restaurants and cafes and streets; every time you found me wet; every time you sucked my breast through my thin, cotton blouse, I lost an inch of myself. More ink on my skin.
You love me, you love me.
Your words seeped, slow and profound, until I lived for your teeth and the thrust of your cock. I became an arching back, a curving neck, a gaping, needy cunt. I was a response to the words you scrawled on my skin with your rich, invisible ink—a room, a haven, the bottle and the djinn, a pretty little box….
I have sent you the letter I want you to see, one written by a woman who no longer exists. Now, in the quiet of my lush, little room, I cover my skin in my very own ink, thick and black, from my pen. Once every kiss is covered and every lick and bite obscured, I will wash the ink away in a claw foot tub—the one we shared last Spring in a hotel I won’t name, because the distance between then and now hurts.
You are in me and on me. Your name is in my bones. I will soak and scrub until it dissolves, and the water and ink go cold. I will write until I am calm. Because I am not calm. I am not calm. I am not calm, my Love. I am the product of your words.
Want to hear me read it? Click on HERE for the audio version.