Waiting – what is she waiting for?
For a touch in the wind
To come billowing,
Exposing her core.
More you might like
Living alone has become a habit
the silent hours after work
preparing a sandwich or
salad or frozen pizza
avoiding email and texts
books and magazines piled on
every surface, black and white movies
streaming, I embrace the simplicity of celibacy.
I saw your potions in the corner attenuating
Thought I’d collect some of them for myself
Get a handle on all that magic
You look at me like I’m supposed to know where your angst comes from
Just where is the fountain from which all your knowledge pours
Rainbows are more black and white than this
At the corner of what it is and what it was, I pace myself
The owl understands repetition’s insanity
It doesn’t change a thing
Black and white are the colors of photography. To me, they symbolize the alternatives of hope and despair to which mankind is subjected.
Robert Frank
(via thewhitedarkroom)
(via thewhitedarkroom)
My Little Mannequin.
“I just want you to have time to model your outfits for me.”
“I’m going to model them?!”
“Of course, Doll. How else am I supposed to pick what’s best if I don’t see how it looks?”
My entire body tenses at the words, and I let out nervous chuckle of laughter. Model outfits. For Him. Of all people, for Him.
I am an insecure person by nature. My body makes me anxious, nervous. I’ve written before about how difficult it has been for me to have my body worshipped by my partners, complimented, or even touched too intimately. When once, Beast made me lay still while His lips worshipped my body, it was difficult for me. Dollmaker may be new, but He knows parts of my soul in ways I wasn’t sure I’d ever share. Maybe that’s why my body was a place I wasn’t sure I could take showing Him. My body is not a sanctuary to me; it is a place where turmoil has been raged, both inflicted by myself and others. My breasts are dappled with a need to belong, pressed and bruised and plucked and primped to be my primary asset when my clothing is off to avoid at the stares at my self-harm scars literally the curves of my stomach or the extra skin clinging to my thighs and upper arms. My hips are soft indents of where hands have firmly grasped me when they shouldn’t have, when I didn’t want them to, and my knees are bruised from falling to them when I cannot stomach another step forward. When I look in the mirror, when I run my hands over my flesh, it is very rare that I feel anything but shame over the way that my body hangs and reminds me of those who have made it feel like it only had one purpose.
I wouldn’t say I’m insecure about my weight, even though I’m aware I’m a bigger woman. That’s not the issue. It’s something deeper than that. I don’t find myself beautiful because I’ve been told that I’m not. I don’t find myself desireable because the actions of those in the past have taught me that I’m not. I don’t look at myself and see strength in my frame and features because it’s always been pointed out how easily I crumble. I do not consider myself a broken person, but I also do not consider myself a strong one. It’s something I’m working on, but in that very moment, those words were like daggers directly into the spot it hurt most; the way I view myself.
“I’m picking, aren’t I? I want my Doll well dressed.”
I sent the first few photos of panties, and I critiqued every single one, my heart thudding in my chest. Too much flab in that one. Look how pale my skin looks next to that color. The lace makes me look like an old lady. Jesus, that’s disgusting! Why did you send that to Him?
He chose a pair without mention of anything else, swifting moving on to the next item of clothing. Taking the photos was agonizing. I refused to look at them for long before sending them, and I immediately deleted them on my end once they were sent. I couldn’t understand how He could look at these pictures and not see what I saw. Not dislike what He saw. I couldn’t understand why He would want what He saw to be His. It took me a couple moments to send some of the photos because my entire being told me not to. (And a few phone calls.) Don’t show Him the most insecure parts of you.
Don’t.
Don’t.
Don’t.
Don’t.
“There you are! I was beginning to think you got lost, my little mannequin.”
It felt like I was frozen for a moment. Was He… Was He complimenting me? After everything I had sent? Why… Why would He…?
We finished choosing my outfit from start to finish, and I showered. I took my time running my hands over my body, and I imagined what He must see when He looked at the photos, when He looked at me. I could see His face in my mind’s eye, the crinkle of His eyes, that smile that breaks His entire face in half like a geode. A warm sensation spread up my body, and I could feel myself beaming. Stepping out of the shower, lathering myself in lotion, I started putting on the clothing He had chosen for me.
The sensation was full-body and nearly instant. I’ve written in the past about how much food being chosen for me effects me, but clothing wasn’t something I thought fell under the same category. Until now. As I tugged on those pants, the socks, slipped the panties on and the shirt over the bra… I felt a rush of pride. Assembled the way He had instructed, my body changed in that moment. Not because He made me feel beautiful, not because He saved me from the darker parts of myself. Something much more simple than that.
Because He cared enough to put such detail and effort into my appearance. Because it mattered to Him. Because I mattered to Him. Because I always will be, always have been beautiful to Him.
That feeling, that thought, crashed over me like a wave and I couldn’t breathe for a few moments. I sat down, struggling to catch my breath through the drunken sobs at the realization that I was so loved. It’s something I haven’t experienced in this exact, unique way before, and the feeling was crushing. Clothing has never been something I chose with love. It was something to cover up the shame of the person I had become. Something my mother threw at me after a long day because she had picked it up and she wanted me to wear it to make myself presentable. Something I borrowed from friends because their clothing had meaning and mine was just fabric. For someone who dislikes clothing as much as I do, I’ve always had a bittersweet relationship with the fabric itself. No one ever really cared enough to help me choose things that looked good together, matched, mattered. Made me feel beautiful.
After composing myself and trying to process the emotions I had just worked through, I realized this was something I needed. This was something I wanted to keep doing. This part of myself, insecurities and worries, needed to be dealt with exactly in the way He had accidentallly unlocked. I took a selfie, still trembling, a weak smile on my lips but proud of how I looked, perhaps for the first time in a long, long time. I sent the photo to Him, and exhaled.
A few seconds later, I heard His unique vibration beside me on the bed.
“*wolf whistles* Hey gorgeous!”
I don’t think the man knows half how my His words effect me, but I hope reading this helps Him see a little sliver of what His control does for me.
Thank you.
O then it was you I waited for, to hold
The soft leaves of my bones between your hands
And warm them back to life, to fashion wands
Out of my shining arms.
James Wright, from “The Assignation” (via a-quiet-green-agreement)
not to be a dramatic bitch but the iconic emily bronte line ‘i wish i were a girl again, half savage and hardy and free’ hits me in the chest every time and transports me to an undisclosed rural hill in england some time in the 1800s with my hair tangling in the wind as im forced to think about everything i was and everything i’m turning into
when clarice lispector said “respect yourself more than others, respect your needs, respect even what is bad in you—respect especially what you imagine to be bad in you—for the love of God, don’t try to make yourself into somebody perfect—don’t copy an ideal person, copy yourself—that is the one way to live. take for yourself what belongs to you, and what belongs to you is all that your life demands. it seems like an amoral moral. but what is truly amoral is having given up on yourself. have the courage to transform yourself, my darling”
send me the rose
that you dream on and I’ll send you mine
life is very long when you’re alone
let’s be one sad poem
in tandem