Instinct of Home...the things we say while fucking…
When you were fucking me,
and I was begging you to cum,
you asked me “why?”
I remember you asking,
I remember having no language to answer.
All I could do was beg.
In that moment,
I needed you buried deep,
I needed the gift of your potential,
Even though it could never take root as a child,
I needed you to plant your seed inside me.
I needed the energy of your release,
Like a crust of bread to a starving beggar,
Like air to a drowning man,
In that moment,
I needed to please you.
I needed to be owned by you,
I needed to be your bitch.
You said later that I referred to my body as Home,
and again you asked me “why?”
I have been trying to find a way to reconcile
the desperate need I felt and
the language I found to answer.
As the Earth is our Home and the body of our Mother
Home is an instinct beyond the language I have.
Home is where life is,
where needs are met,
where sustenance is provided,
Shelter and comfort
warmth and light,
strength and stability
from which to go forth,
A haven when rest and sleep and healing are needed,
a place of safety and belonging and pleasure,
Home is a place you own and possess by inhabiting it.
A place that is not home,
is empty space
Even a grave has purpose,
to the dead who own it.
That instinct is older than my language.
It is primitive knowing from lifetimes ago,
encoded into my body’s DNA,
that my body exists to please another,
that it has no purpose
that survival is not assured
that it is not completely justified
without a child in my womb
or a cock in my cunt.
but, I am a woman of my time,
and you should never take too seriously
the things we say while fucking ...