v u l v a l i c i o u s
There are the things that I don't tell you about, not because I can't but because I won't. I want these things to mine, only and completely.
I keep this writing to myself. Scrambling to type in the middle of the night or while you are napping. Waiting til I am alone in the house to say things however I want to say them, and erasing the history when I am done. I don't want to leave a trace. I don't want you to know.
It's not that I think you would judge me, dislike anything I have to say, or generally not want writing. It's more that this is mine. I imagine myself typing unknown and unnoticed, and that is actually how I like it.
In another life I was a reader of the things I wrote, mostly poems about being in love and in want and in need. Or sex, desire, kink. I would read and not be nervous, because the truth is that more often than not a reading is good to an audience simply because the reader believed it would be good. So my confidence carried me. My words, too, but not nearly as much. Aging has made me realize that I am a passable, though not talented, writer.
I mostly just luck out sometimes.
So now I don't read any of this, not aloud, and hardly share it. Instead I come and write in secret. Read things in secret, browse entirely different websites in secret.
Hush, hush. It's bedtime and I am out on the prowl. And I will erase the internet history and hope not to get caught out, because it is the secretiveness that is keeping me coming back.