when I was made of flame

dammit.  I used to be beautiful.

I used to stop traffic.  Random men would stop me in the street, hand me things, cling desperately to me, make up flattering nicknames to call me, find a billion different ways for them to grab my attention.  I used to be able to walk into a crowded room and pick out the guy I would like to hang out with that night and he would, inevitably, make his way over to my side.  Men have written songs for me.

I used to be filled with sexual desire.  There were ample opportunities for that fire to be kindled, nurtured, to fucking burn down the house.  The whole of being would sometimes be filled with sensuality.   I luxuriated in the feel of food on my tongue or the wind on my skin.

But when it came time to choose a husband I chose a man that did not kindle that fire in me.  Intentionally.  I wanted someone who loved me for my intelligence, for my thoughts, for my hopes and likes and intentions, rather than for my fuckability.  It seemed like a sound choice at the time.  What I needed was saftey.  Stability.  Someone who I could trust we the whole of me.  And I got that, in spades.  I figured that I'd been pretty much glut on sexuality, that it was going to be totally unimportant when I got old, and that I could probably make some improvements on the boy in that arena.

I gave up this central, beautiful part of myself.

and I miss it.

desperately.




and I don't think I'm allowed to have it anymore.