love letter to desire

for R,

I devote myself to You.

No, I turn you into a chess piece in

My auto-erotic sex game.

Was Barthes right when he said,

“Am I in love? --yes, since I am waiting. The other one never waits. Sometimes I want to play the part of the one who doesn't wait; I try to busy myself elsewhere, to arrive late; but I always lose at this game. Whatever I do, I find myself there, with nothing to do, punctual, even ahead of time. The lover's fatal identity is precisely this: I am the one who waits.”

Thus goes the doomed dichotomy of wanter and wanted.

Let’s play a different game.

Wanter:

you’re frozen in a fetal position. Locked in repetitions. Think, curl feet, think, curl feet, think, curl feet. What are you thinking about? Mostly your present disposition. How impossible it feels to escape.

You hear Her voice in the distance. Or maybe you imagine it. Either way it doesn’t matter, it breaks you out of the cycle if only for a moment. Her voice- a breadcrumb in the direction you’d like to go.

You are a bundle of want, and there is no relief in sight. But desire for its own sake is all intoxicating. you become infatuated by the longing itself. At this point is it even about Me anymore? Yes, because I am here as witness to your collapse. your yearning rouses no sympathy in Me. It only adds fuel to My emotional Sadism. (Emotional sadomasochism: giving/receiving emotional play with intention.)

How liberating it is to know one’s place in simple terms. Listen closely. In whispers I lay out everything you must do to earn My affection… You seek an easy answer and that I must deny you. Making your body ache, crushing your libido into a mental chastity cage. you will never have Me, no one ever will. It’s no matter anyhow. One can never truly have the Other. But in spite of this fact, you willingly give your everything to Me anyway.

I keep you at arm’s length, but still I choose to keep you.

Wanted.

I require a small sacrifice. I need proof. SOLID evidence I had you here with me, that this wasn’t all a dream.

When I was young I longed to be closer, so I stole my father’s belt (too big on me) and his watch (no longer keeping time. Both made of aging leather. As I got older, the habit continued. First it was my girlfriend’s sock. Then I pleaded for my boyfriend’s hair until finally resorting to cutting it in his sleep. Memories are shaky, unreliable. Did you know each memory recalled is just a memory of the last recollection of that memory? I was devastated when I learned that as a child. So young and already, I've lost so much. But now that I carry a piece of you with me. I won't ever forget the color or texture of your hair.

Give Me something I can touch, taste, feel. Something that can't be returned, at least- not in the same condition in which it was received... your blood, hair and tears bottled, labeled, and now neatly placed on the same shelf where I keep My poetry.

There is nothing quite like being on the receiving end of my desire. Most of you reading will never know its full power. But to those lucky few, know that I see you in all your brilliance and it overwhelms me. “I am engulfed, I succumb.”

With love and longing,

-Undine-