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v u l v a l i c i o u s

All Out to Get You
2002-11-14 // 9:37 a.m.

I'm so alone tonight, my bed feels larger than when I was small, lost in memories, lost in all the sheets and old pillows, I'm so alone tonight, miss you more than I could let you know, miss the outline of your back,miss you breathing down my neck,

Oh, they're all out to get you, once again, they're all out to get you, once again...

Insecure, whatcha gonna do? feel so small they could step on you, called you up, answering machine when the human touch is what I need, what I need is you. I need you.

Looked in the mirror, I don't know who I am anymore the face is familiar but the eyes, the eyes give it all away...

Here they come again, here they come again, here they come again... they're all out to get you, once again they're all out to get you... once again

I listen to that song in the dark late at night before I go to bed and wonder who is coming again, wonder if the dark is protective or frightening. The bed is as cold and empty as it can get on a night when the heat isn't on and I am alone.

I want to think of her, but stop myself. I fear the repercussions of allowing her into my unconscious like that, and wonder what would happen if I woke myself up calling her name; wonder what would happen if I woke her up calling her name.

Could she hear me through miles and state lines? Would she hear her name and refuse proper proposals like a modern day Jane Eyre, waiting instead for that voice she heard late one night, calling her name in a mix of joy and pain so sensual she could not define it?

She bristles in the morning, like a cat. I often want to touch her, rest my hand on her shoulder or head--sweetly, in a manner befitting our relationship--but always stop, knowing she would not be as appreciative of the gesture as I would.

I know what exists there, but deny it sometimes. Self-delusion has always been one of my strong points, and I intend to hold on to it for as long as possible.

In the dark, listening to that song, someone else was there. It was her, some her; I felt her there, and she sang to me, her voice repeating that "what I need" with tender perfection as her hands moved with precision closer and closer to fucking me. She was there.

Delusions of Cunted grandeur, like the Grand Canyon; I await at the edge hysterically, and it is only a matter of time before I'll dive in.


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