This Isn’t About You
Posted by Layla Winterborne on Friday, 8 January, 2010 @ 1:01 am
Sometimes I can hear everyone on the planet talking all at once and it gets so loud that I swear my eardrums will burst beneath the pressure until I suddenly find myself talking to only one person…but it’s not really me doing the talking. Sometimes it’s my mother or that one screaming kid from Chuck E. Cheese or a student, but mostly it’s a conglomeration of unrecognized faces that hold their own actions and gestures and movements. Sometimes they do no more than talk over coffee…other times they fuck, using my voice to moan, to scream, “Oh god! Harder, deeper, faster! Oh baby, oh baby!!” Things I would never say but can’t stop because they’re on the brink of orgasm and all I can do is cry out some guy’s name that I don’t even recognize.
Singing with someone else’s voice.
There are times when I don’t want to talk politics and war and art but it’s verbal diarrhea and I’m not in control. The words keep tumbling over a foreign tongue until I wake, shivering, because at some point I became tangled in my sheets and eventually just kicked them off the bed.
Looking at the twisted mess on the floor, I have to remind myself that I am me…touching my arms, my hair, my face, even touching…checking for the penis I had been using to fuck some stranger five minutes prior but all I can feel is the slit of my cunt and now I can smell my own smell mingled with salt and sweat and booze. We are not a single, white sheet with me here and you there and in that corner a hammer, an orgasm, a fig tree, two guys fucking on a park bench….No…I’m me and you’re you but together we form an us and I can’t do anything but cry out in the throes of passion and scream in anger and sigh in disgust because I can only feel what you feel and all I feel is used. I am theirs and they and I make we and I can’t scream because there is no “I” in scream.
I feel used and the sorry bastards didn’t even get me off.
