Catharsis

It's only the 20th! It hasn't been a month yet!

God, I'm a fucking slacker. :P


Catharsis


There is a storm in me; and sometimes it seems my whole life is just a struggle, endless and without victory, to control it. To bury the tempest.

In my youth I would hold it inside, that typhoon's worth of rage seething and brewing till it seemed my skin would split, hot blood pouring out, my very bones wrenching themselves apart. With no outlet, I retreated into a word the size of my bed; lay curled into myself all night, aching, weeping, unable to name my rage or to move on from it to something better, healthier. Pacing my little room-jail, trembling, wanting only to lash out and purge the fire within. To hit, scream, destroy. I never knew another way to pass through those nights; there was the forbidden violent release, or the unbearable silent hours spent alone, arms wrapped around my belly, filled with horrible black bile like some awful god or devil were trapped inside me, clawing to get out.

Sometimes books would let me escape, worm my way out of the rage into someone else's world.

Sometimes masturbation helped; grinding fingers into myself, horrible fantasies that would shame me in the morning, but it was a way to get off. Trying to be so, so quiet. If I wasn't careful, there would be a bruised spot next to my clit afterward, a sore, swollen reminder.

Then you came, and showed me this path. Cured my curse, opened my prison door, and led me out, faltering but wholly yours.

I warned you early, about the rage; how it could paralyse or consume me. I didn't think I would be a good lover, a good love, at least not for more than a night. Too much imbalance. Too broken. I advised you to leave, and you ignored me. And I can never thank you enough.

Now you're my rock, my foundation. My master. When the darkness boils up in me - and it still does, it's how I was made, I don't think I will ever be one of the placid serene people with their stress balls and herbal teas - it's all right, because you know how to lance it, how to draw it away. Somehow you can sense it in me and then your hand is at the back of my neck, your fingers twisted in my hair, asking me, though you already know, if It is back again. If I need You to help me.

Sometimes I can answer, I can ask, though it's incredibly difficult. It's like lifting a heavy, heavy curtain in my head, one that fights me, doesn't want to be lifted. But it's all right. Even when I can't take the weight - when I pull away, sullen, contrary - you know. And so do I.

I fight you. It's what I need, what I've always needed, lashing out, teeth bared, cursing you. But you're so much bigger, so strong; wearing me down until you can grab hold of me, take me to the floor or the bedroom; slide the collar on me, showing me that I can fight, I can claw and writhe and buck, but I am still Yours. Giving me straps to fight against, a gag to scream into. Bleeding away the storm - with time, with exhaustion, with sex and pain and your voice in my ear - caring and mocking at the same time, telling me how very awful I'm being, and at the same time that it's all right. That I'm loved.

You bind me, lash me down, work me into an incoherent lust that burns away everything else inside - the darkness flees it, like mist burned away by the sun - and then you slide into me, becoming one. Our climaxes, together like this, are huge, explosive things, too big for bodies to bear. I love feeling you shake against me, hearing the growl of your pleasure in my ear; we've saved each other again. found equilibrium together again.

Now, I can cry, and it's a good thing, cleansing and healing. I'm purged, floating on love and endorphins; I'm free. Whatever woke my darkness, we'll be able to talk about it, fix it together.

But first, my tears, like rain.