Sade LaNay

Entry 047
Spring Fling; Roy; Last Nights of Venus in Leo

watching my blood fill the sink sucked down the drain what is it like? all my girl friends ask me when I tell them about the sponges I kind of love it but i’m groß like that I like feeling like I can touch a part of myself that no one else can men use words like “tight” “wet” “hot” or one guy said “my dick feels nuts” & it was really distracting i would be happy to sext anyone who paid me to do so no more writing for free or maybe a writing workshop where I teach men to be better sexters because a text that says let me rub my cock between your tits until i cum on your chest just sounds like you asking me to let you make a mess i have to clean up later but if a text says i wanna be your footstool well that changes things… &&& when the submissive asked if he could come over during my period I hesitated---because it felt like… that’s my time---I’ve heard women talk about it but I’ve never had sex while menstruating… willingly & I wasn’t… because it was almost over & sometimes I just want to be unhindered & idgaf & i was getting ready for bed & just wanted one more cigarette & the moon was full & close through the trees & he was already in the apartment--alreadyintheroom--already taking his dick out--taking off his clothes--pulling off my clothes--pinning me against the wall--grabbing my wrists--biting me {i said no a bunch of times} [what is unclear about “I do not want to have sex with you”] I wasn’t strong enough I couldn’t overpower him|passive|think maybe it won’t hurt (but it does) {I guess you can’t get pregnant if you’re on your period so there’s thatthatthat} nowhere to go////a spontaneous tryst with a frenchman &&& in his bed after naked and smoking he brought me lemonade he recited Invictus &&& the sex was okay--we tired ourselves out (his bed was almost too soft) but the best part was his voice reciting that poem him lighting two cigarettes at once & setting one between my parted lips & in his tiny shower kissing in a way that’s hard to stop & his solid hands in my hair & the hot water & I had him take me home because in the morning I was leaving for NYC or AWP or West Philly I was going somewhere &&& he would call during the summer & I wouldn’t answer because I was afraid to be triggered///I was moving any way it… was interesting///looking at each other///standing in his kitchen he touched my face & said you’re incredibly sexy in person or some shit--I said oh and shrugged--getting into bed that night felt so good

 


Sex is better when you can remain in your body.


 

“Will you?”

I squeeze the lotion into his hand. Unbend my leg so that my foot is in his lap. He steadies my left calf in his right hand and meets my eyes. I try not to smile. He’s thorough about it. His hands are firm, kneading. He opens his palm for more lotion. I lift my right leg onto the bed. He starts at the top of my foot working the creme up into my thigh.

My skin is pale for this late in the summer. I’ve been inside a lot. I don’t like to be barelegged anyhow. It feels like I am tempting something. I watch his hands. The way they slide up and down. The veins visible and twisting with the muscles on the backs of his hands. His clean, close cut nails. The hair on his arms. I get to decide what happens.

“My back now.”

I take my shirt off. My hair gets caught in it. I sit back on my knees, gather my hair over my left shoulder. The lotion is cool on my back. My hands sink into the pillow in front of me and furl into fists. His hands aren’t soft. He squishes my shoulders. Unhooks my bra. I lean forward and rest on my forearms. He pulls my panties away. Holds me in his hand. I am slick.

I lie down roll onto my back. I wish there was some way to watch what he was doing. My brain can only create an image for the inside of my eyelids based on sensational recognition of what part of him is touching me. His mustache and stubble feel like stiff bristles. It’s hard to know what to call the parts of my body that I never talk about. Is he penetrating me with his tongue? My fingertips glide against his warm, bald head. Which orgasm is this? Once you know that it’s just pee, is squirting still something to brag about? Is this really what heroin feels like? I arch my back, lift my hips off the bed. I cast my hands palm down at my sides. Will my eyes to open and dart around the room. Be in the room. Remain here for this. Stay in my skin alongside every nerve ending. I’m thirsty. His mouth is wet and open over my left nipple. He exhales. The hair on his dimpled chin grazes my collarbone, his teeth on the skin of my neck.

I attempt to focus as muscles clench and go limp. I reach for his face. I smell myself on his lips. I wonder. I am lonely. I settle my head on the pillows. I rest my right index finger against his jaw then sweep my thumb down his nose, through his mustache between his rosy thin lips. His central incisors scrape the grooves of my thumbpad. He brushes my hair over my shoulder with his left hand. A running grasp from my shoulder blade to elbow breaks into just his fingers skimming my forearm. I do my best not to squirm. I enjoy the aimlessness of his caress. He runs his hands over my breasts and belly like someone enamored with touching, enthralled with texture. We lie close together, close to still. I am beginning to doze off. He cups my cheek and puts his shirt back on. I walk him out. It’s that moment right before sunrise when the sky becomes visible.

I lock the door and return to bed.

Entry 049

maybe if i tweet all of my sad thoughts i’ll be less sad/feel like i’ve tried that before and it hasn’t worked/like all the medications i’ve ever been on: Effexor, Ambien, Seroquel, Abilify, Lexapro, Geodon (i can still feel that one),Clonapan Klonopin, Ativan (because I wouldn’t/couldn’t stop crying & it was upsetting the other patients), Respordol Risperdal, Lithium, Wellbutrin, Prozac (made me irritable/outwardly aggressive), Remeron, Lamictal, Trazadone, Cymbalta, crazycrazycrazy, they’re going to drag you away one day, lock you up, you just have to be so miserable all the time five hospitalizations I can’t go back I feel crazy no i do i feel crazy like something is wrong with how i feel and no one else in my family will admit when they are sad & sometimes i forget that it’s okay to cry now i’m not a child anymore but i still feel like one when i get upset i feel little again and like negated (i’m not smart i just know things because i live in my body) i used to break things when i was angry i couldn’t stand the feeling of it in my body of just wanting to scream and i broke my favorite tea pots one of them was musical with a sledgehammer i found in the back yard it only felt good for a millisecond a man who was stalking me felt like he needed to put me in my place like i should be grateful for the attention why did i have such a bad attitude [better question: why didn’t anyone in the community around me intervene? they were all there at the barbeque where he confronted me] and then i broke my guitar after fighting with my best friend because i really wanted to grab him by his golden mane of hair and say softly listen you have no idea who you are speaking to that way, i am not your mother, i’m not here to make you comfortable to entertain you to be your fun but i apologized anyway because i always apologized for being overdramatic, for making a scene, a big deal out of nothing being crazy acting crazyfeeling crazy is it 12:15 or 1:30? neither.

Entry 054

I’m so fucking sad today I feel like spoiled milk//At the poetry project sometimes when I’m talking I realize that I’m talking and I hate what I’m saying and it feels stupid so I want to stop but I’ve already opened my mouth like if I give someone a blow job and I just want it to be over in both situations no one can tell the difference or they miss the split second of hesitation “there is nothing to be gained from emotional responsiveness”//thinking about having to go back to Indiana I think it would make everyone sad to know I don’t really want to//it doesn’t feel like a break it feels like work most things feel like labor but it’s easy to be with some people when I don’t have to perform or make someone happy &&that’s not even what I mean:::what I mean is there are some people who already know my language who don’t need it translated or explained && it’s not like other ppl are wrong for needing translation or explanation//but “the violence of the coping strata is ______ & specific” I confuse myself too//until someone says yes or yeah or I know what you mean or if they look at me or/and tilt their head or smile a certain way and then and then and then it’s easier to sleep at night when I haven’t had to explain what I mean when I’m saying “I’m tired” & I might want to die sometimes & just shoot myself somewhere can’t decide where & it’s just that I’ve been feeling things all day that make me feel so hopeless & pointless & if it was 6 or 7 years ago I might have a thought like I can’t kill myself, my room is such a mess, I haven’t even unpacked everything! once I unpack everything and clean my room then I can think about killing myself && then I would unpack and clean and hang the paintings & the photos & at the end of the day I would really think about suicide///today I just couldn’t focus and I was trying to write & solve problems  but instead I fell into bed & cried until I slept all afternoon//woke up at 6:24 && cried somemore because I didn’t want the outside to touch me///my hands are so cold all the time & I’m not sure these shoes fit right//but then it’s okay & it’s easier to be in the room & I’m with people I know & I think that one reason I’m afraid to go back is because I know I’m different now & maybe they won’t understand me & I’m less accommodating & it hurts to know that maybe I’m a stranger to everyone I’m strange---

Sade LaNay

Sade LaNay is a poet and artist from Houston, TX. Sade is the author of Dream Machine (co-im-press, 2014), self portrait (Birds of Lace, forthcoming) and I love you and I’m not dead (Argos Books, 2019) with poems featured in the Electric Gurlesque and Bettering American Poetry anthologies. They are a graduate of the MFA in Creative Writing at the Pratt Institute. 

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