the sensei says that when you fight, you meet the opponent in yourself. you meet your anger, fear and indecision. the indecision is the worst, because you freeze and can't respond to your partner, even if they are hurting you. you are confronted with the reality of the punch, the kick, the contact. you can't pretend you weren't just kicked. and you can't pretend you didn't just kick your sparring partner. satori, a moment of awakeness.
what i didn't tell you
is that i crawled on my hands and knees after you left, after you didn't want me to spend the night again. i didn't tell you that i felt so sick i was dizzy and couldn't stand up, like i was on a badly rocking boat. i felt like i had to throw up, so i crawled to the toilet and curled up around it, like a kitten licking it's fur. and i cried and cried, big, fat, hot tears rolling down my cheeks to the tile bathroom floor. god, i am so sick of this ache. i just want to be held and loved, i want to have someone pet my hair and kiss my neck near my ear and say it's all going to be all right. my girlfriend sat and watched me. she shook her head. she said it seems like the men in the world really aren't doing the women much good.
i think of my father. i just want to be held. when will this ache ever go away? will i always be this broken? my gut hurts like nausea. it's the buckshot size hole where my self-esteem should be. i want to be seen in my entirety, my wholeness. i want to fuck you for fun and have you take me seriously.
i haven't told you this because
the truth is
i don't know you that well
even though you slipped so easily inside me and my body was wet with yes, and i felt you travel to the center of my white, hot yoni that makes all the light in my forehead go white too. it was easy to go there. it wasn't as easy to recover balance afterwards. somehow, when i got out of bed, a spell was broken. what had flowed so easily like a dance was now feeling limited. a little confusing.
"i'm going to get coffee, do you want to come?"
"no, that's alright"
"can i get you anything?"
i pulled on my dress and went out from the cave of nocturnal love into the sunlight. my eyes sting from the sudden brightness. ah, god's flashlight. i walked down the street, that funny kinda walk with hips extra loose and my pussy still wet. i secretly smile to myself. maybe i look like an ordinary woman. but i am not. i am full of slick yum.
"mango? pineapple, guava?"
"mango, pineapple, guava?"
the fruit seller sings on the corner
pigeons drop shit on the parked cars.
at the coffee shop, i regard myself in the bathroom mirror. what have i looked like to you in bed? my face always surprises me. i often turn the rear view mirror in my car to look at myself, instead of the traffic. like a toddler fascinated with their own reflection. is that really me? is that what i look like on the outside?
what do i look like on the outside?
on the inside i am aching
i think, did i sleep with you too soon? but i don't want to think of it like that, of playing games. i followed what felt real in the moment. we sparred, i got kicked and i kicked. maybe i met more of the opponent in myself. the old, sad buttons that get pressed by close contact, and like a child's doll a recorded voice comes out of me that says, "papa". and now i retract back into myself to lick my fur in dignity. we played hard.
a flash of satori in our spar, in our lovemaking.
am i broken open, or just broken?