Sugar, sugar.

Engulfed within the sheets, your fingertips like paint brushes to my skin like canvas. I prefer to leave the scent of my hair upon your exact pillow so that the next night, right before you drift away, you smell me and smile. That is what I am. A memory, a painting, a scent upon your pillow. Slowly, but surely, I become your favorite dream. I think back to a time where the void wasn't so large. That's my favorite dream. Not you, or your scent. But rather, a time where you lingered. A time when I was the paintbrush, not the canvas. There's an animal in me. I unleashed it one time on a serene campground, curly wild hair, underwear, night time. I floated between spaces and universes and galaxies looking for you so that I could avoid you the whole time. Its funny how you barely cross my mind, but when you do, I have enough disdain boiling in my stomach to melt metal. You are the epitome of the reason I hide the beast within my soul, buried deep underneath my corporate giggle and lack of tear ducts. You are the reason I care less than ever before. Once there was a trestle nearby that heard my pleas. Whatever those pleas were, I can say not. Once there was a boy who sang about me. Literally transformed my body and my sex into words and melody. How magical. All the onces from before all turn to melody into the air into nothingness. Sometimes I want it. Like, really really bad. To be loved and cared for and tossed to the side from time to time. A lot of the time; the idea frightens me. My mouth salivates, my body gets faint, I start to feel like I'm drifting away and someone brings me back to life. That lightheaded feeling I have not decided whether or not I care for comes sometimes in a wave-like fashion. My head throbs with a familiar sense of exhaustion even when I haven't done anything to cause it. A mental exhaustion of sorts having to deal with the walls and borders within my mind that I'm constantly trying to jump over. Amazing how simple some things can be. There are times when I find myself craving someone. I want it to be someone specific but that fluctuates to say the least. The fact of the matter is, I do not want to crave a person who does not crave me back. Its just not as fulfilling. Even though sometimes I like to tell myself that there's this secret hidden message and cryptic undertone or intention buried beneath whatever is actually there. I just feel as if I'm drifting through my life anticipating a moment where a stranger is going to come up to me, grin, slam me into a wall and kiss me with the utmost passion. I kind of have the smallest spark of hope that something will fall out of the sky into my lap. Dancing in a bedroom, sneaking in through windows, sneaking out through windows, forgetting who I was helped me to figure out who I am. Amazing to me how anger was the fuel to my ignorant happiness. That still holds true for a variety of people. Words hold weight for years. I still remember the things you said to me. How you were a child and I was a babysitter when all I did and ever wanted to do was love you. I just wanted to love. But as mentioned before, it could ooze and flood out the ocean, into the sky, and would still had not been enough for you. How much could you take from me? And where are you now? Nowhere. My own words are more powerful than anyone else's. Don't tempt me. I could cause ice to shatter with my words, earthquakes with a shake of my hips. There's something else. A different progression. The feeling of breath on my skin, fingertips rested on my hip bone, smolder in my brain as retaliation of the shit I was put through. I want to be the weight rested within your mind. The frail passerby feeling of being brushed to the side, is that worth anymore than being ignored as a whole? What is it exactly that you want me to be? I can be it. I can be your queen, placed ever so mighty upon the world, your pedestal, you groveling at my feet. I can be your Samaritan, helpful, charitable and filthy. I can be your empathetic, to breathe and feel only you. Or I can be me. I won't fit into a box, but I can be whatever it is I need to be as long as you don't assume that you know me. You can never know me. It's almost as if I am a gigantic puzzle with pieces scattered into everyone else's hands. That's all people really are- mazes. Sometimes you get lost in other people. They can consume you as subtly as your conscience, eating you from the inside out until you're nothing but a pair of eyeballs and a crooked smile. Inhaling your essence might spring me back to a time where I had nothing and no one but the thoughts in my head and the warmth in my palms. How many times will I bring up the same page over and over until I finally finish it? Digging and pulling and prying away at my insides and guts, I can finally show you, show someone, show anyone the gem beneath it all. I can make colors glide across the time span of my imagination but I cannot make myself bleed for a cause. This exhaustion has been slightly overwhelming but I must fight through it for no other reason than I just have to. I feel raw and ripping from the seams with no passion or aspirations but with guilt and apathy. The embrace of a shoulder blade to your eyesight should mean more to you than it does to me, but it never does. I want to feel it rising from the bottom of my feet, out through my fingertips, vibrating up to my ears. To run my tongue over my teeth in sexual anticipation, to feel your body warmth wrapped around mine. My stomach flip flops at the thought. I am merely a goddess putting you at your knees. That's what you want right?