The Orgasm of Blue

Author Miss Parisia B.

“But I shame you more than I appreciate you and that’s not love.”

Along the way, we started to enjoy this disharmonious bliss. So scared to be alone, and genuinely unaware of the dying warmth beneath our palms. I thought I would live to love you, but now every mouthful is choking on maybes. There is no right way to become one. Yet still, we fall out of love just to find each other once again. It’s too soon to say anything; however, we make plans for eternity and rekindle before dusk.

I was driving home alone. It had been a few unsettling weeks without you or sight of a beautiful sky. But tonight, my eyes held onto the falling of dusk. Its downfall eluded the beauty of orange and the orgasm of blue. It had never crossed my mind to compose art, highlighting my love for you. The butterflies, our walks, the swinging and screaming, death, life to new memories, the heart-pounding rhythm that plays when you ring. I can never wipe the stupid grin off of my face when it comes to you.

But I shame you more than I appreciate you, and that’s not love. I believe there is something profound inside of me that is pure. This part of me loves you. This part of me looks to a God made sky and thinks of you. Not self, nor life, but you, my love.
That is how beautiful I think you are.

 

Between your world and mine

I love your body. I love how it so willingly accepts strength and yet is so powerfully afraid. I see all this when I experience you. When I lick and touch you, I feel it. Your being never embraces me for too long, as if you fear my innate softness will sog your evolution. But your distance, I don’t fear. I find ecstasy in discovering how you worship your own body and how you’ve developed a habit of escaping it all in the same breath. You fear the world in a way I never will. Being with you brings me to the ultimate consciousness of this woe, yet I am so gravely comforted to be in the presence of a man who knows his way through each canto. But we emerge from different hells. My confinement beautifying the deconstruction and of my blackness, that of which is too black and not black enough—your inferno inflicting punishment through the extermination of black bodies for the sin of involuntary proximity. Still, I crave your body, your understanding of the world. You respectfully march to the rules of the streets, and I erratically challenge every concept of society.

I suppose you think of me as exempt and fair, I see you as complacent- yet you are everything but; wisely taking care of you and your legacy, and I often feel judged in my pursuit to save the world. Everything about our nature collides, despite the way we uncontrollably contradict one another. At night, when we finish worshipping each other’s bodies, you turn your back to me more often than not. I stare intently. At first, I feel rejection, like my body, wasn’t enough for your nourishment, and you rather sleep than be fed. Now I know my intimate reality never allowed me to comprehend anything contrary to this, until you. I began thinking about your truth, reading the words your body spoke. In your world, I don’t imagine you turn your back to anyone. I guess in your world, it remains against the wall. That in your universe, turning your back could cost you the body I adore so much. Perhaps you trusted me in a way that you hadn’t trusted anyone ever – that I had your back. But now, lying next to you, I’ve become painfully aware of my inability to save either of us. That my obsessive need to wrap my body around you, allow you inside of me for your protection, and to eradicate anyone who dares threaten your body, the one I worship, isn’t enough—what a vicious cycle. But your essence has made me a better woman. The way you thrust implicitly to praise your ego gives me purpose. I honor the nights you let me heal any of your pain and come alive when you offer to alleviate mine.

There is so much space between your world and my totality. Between you and I. But there is so much beauty in our intersections. The places where you fit so perfectly. The places I take you that no one else has before. I presume you are fire and I am earth. Your body has always been in danger. My body ever used for the pleasure of others. When our flesh becomes one, I feel beautiful, and I hope this beauty is somehow enough to ease the peril of losing our bodies as a black man and woman. Because if I am to lose my body to any phenomena, it will be to the wonder of you.

This exert is inspired by the concept of the body in Ta-Nehisi Coates’ book: “Between the World and Me.”

Dear Man with the Stories

I think you were my favorite person. Of course, I could never tell you this. I always felt like an aimless gawk bird flapping and whooping for your attention, never achieving your interest.
Your entrance was like none I’d ever seen before. I didn’t know whether you were about to steal our hearts or our breaths away, you took both. You had jeans on and a white t-shirt, your grey hoody drooping down your back and arms. You sat down and didn’t speak. I looked the other direction, too scared that you might see me through overdrawn eye contact. I realize now how unrealistic my fear was – that you would never see me. You were good at telling stories. You told me one the night I met you. In the state I was in, my eyes would close, but they held onto you for dear life that night. I heard a man in your voice only to notice a little boy peeking from your eyes. The only way I can describe your face was as misery on the sunniest day. My heart soared for you. In those moments, I wanted to jump onto your lips. Not to kiss you, as I did much later that night, but to be told by you- to be a story from your mouth.

I have come to realize that I was, am, the only disillusioned one in all your fictional truths. That when thinking about us, I’ve created the most magnificent novel. We met when I was in the youngest mental state I could possibly exist at that age. Even after you stood me up, I held tight to my thoughts of you. You had existed between my legs thousands of times, and still, every time you got in my car, it felt like you didn’t know my name. Sometimes my whole body would cringe at the thought. My dear storyteller, you asked so much of me, and I gave you more than you’ll ever know. Maybe I felt like life had given you less than you deserved, and so it was justified.
Your exit was quite contrary to your becoming. Predictable, yet, erratic. I’ll never forget that night I picked you up. You didn’t look at me. I drove you around, and you asked me to drop you off. That night I went home crying. I was a slave to your never-ending epic. Why have you left me out of your story? My only hope was to debut in one of your legends, to be a photo you refused to take your eyes off of. I don’t know how to end our story, my dear fabulist. Ceasing thoughts of such a grand entrance as yours is an improbable act. But I suppose to abide in your myth, yet far from its effect is my only real chance at freedom…
The End.