Maybe I don’t write because I have nothing to say. Or maybe I don’t write because I have too much inside me, and I don’t know how to get it out. I don’t know how to tell you about the parts of me that I worry aren’t sexy, or lurid, or what you expect.
So often I go to write and stop short, unsure of my words and my intent. There’s sex in me, that’s certain. Sex I’m having and sex I’m thinking and sex I’m wanting. But somehow that isn’t enough.
I want to tell you about my fears, and my fantasies. My flings. My flirtations.
I want to tell you about my hopes and my bitter disappointments. I want to tell you about the things I’ve turned down, and the things I’ve been too afraid to ask for.
I want to type things out to you with one hand, sometimes because the other’s slick with come, sometimes because I’m lying in the dark crying and two hands is too hard.
I guess I’m worried that you won’t know what to make of it. That you won’t understand.
Maybe I just don’t know what to make of it. I don’t really understand myself.