Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

And, Also

I LOVE HOW YOU DON'T REACT BADLY WHEN I DELIBERATELY PISS ON YOU DURING SEX. (AND, ALSO, HOW YOU LAUGHED WHEN I THREATENED TO ADD MY URINE TO THE BATH I JUST DREW YOU.)(I DID, BUT I KNEW YOU'D KNOW I'D DO IT.)

Ring My Bell

You bought it for me; a gift (you know how much I love cheap novelty underwear). It was the morning after the winter solstice, the morning after the Aberdeen Travelodge curse was broken. (At first I was worried. I swung from not wanting to go to wanting to go but wanting it to be over with already. But by the time we were at the steps - already late for dinner at Rendezvous - I wanted more; just an extra ten minutes - remember?)

It was December 22nd, three days until show time, and everything Christmas related was on clearance. They were heaped into dissolving piles in front of the store, hundreds of thin, flimsy bells tinkling while enthusiastic shoppers foraged. (Who would've thought that something that cost £0.50 could eventually, secretly, become a token of devoted and unconditional love.)

When I rediscovered the Christmas thong last month it still had its price tag. After pulling on the festive panties I shook my ass, jingling the tiny, golden bell against my hidden cunt to draw your attention. You smiled, I think, when I said it was like putting on a dainty version of my collar. You laughed, I remember, when I said I felt like a goat following her shepherd into town, my camouflaged bell chiming ownership with every step I took.

It was a special day for no reason. I put up my hair. I wore lipstick. I pulled on panties. (I almost never wear make-up, and I almost never wear underwear. The last time - before GOAT'S DAY OUT- was Christmas Eve, and my dirty make-up brushes were still sitting in a glass tumbler to prove it.) Pure gold mingled with fake gold, and tied around my perfumed neck Santa Muerte and Catholicism merged until two separate roads became one in the valley of my breasts.

I fell asleep crying that night as the washing machine rattled in the kitchen. (I don't know if you remember, but we had a fight after we came home. I couldn't read you and thought you were upset with me.) I cried most of my make-up off, and wiped away your red lipstick. I cried taking the pins out of my hair, and while rolling off your camouflaged bell. (It wasn't exactly how I imagined the day would end.)

I felt stupid. I felt naive and ordinary and just as fucking retarded as any other woman in the history of the world for thinking that if I made an effort, if I dressed nice for you, things would be better between us. That maybe you'd be happy, that maybe all it'd take to make things okay again was me trying a little harder at something that once was so effortlessly present.

That time - that period - was the closest I ever got to wondering "is this the end?". I didn't think it was possible, at least not for us. But then I lost you, and when I lost you I became a fading ghost, haunted by a different life, because there's no me without you.

(How can I be me without you? You define me, you make me whole. I exalt you in unspoken hymns sung from my heart when I'm doing the laundry. I build you empires, erect monuments, and construct temples Ebay item by Ebay item to glorify and materialize my love for you. Every laugh, every kiss, every embrace, every cookie I bake are songs of love pulsing through my heart that I know you'll never hear.)

I fell asleep crying that night as the washing machine rattled in the kitchen, a goat without a shepherd, a wife losing her husband, a person without definition or purpose. And while I cried and slept, and while the washing machine rattled, the goat and bell were severed leaving a Christmas mouse will no bell to ring. When I was in bed and sleeping, you were awake with needle and thread.

You hung my thong on the chipboard separating the dressers from the bookshelves, and I found them the next morning, the abrasive elastic band tarnished but still flashing gold-green in the light. The bell had come off in the wash, you said, and without any provocation you located your mother's sewing box and hand-stitched that tiny, chiming bell back onto the novelty thong you bought me so many months prior while I laid in bed, crying, wondering if it really was the beginning of the end.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

You don't know this, but I deliberately let the underwear hang on the chipboard for days and weeks and nearly a month. It was a reminder, a token of devoted and unconditional love. When I was curled up assuming the worst, you were here, where we work, where we love, where we live, fixing clearance underwear. When I thought you didn't want me anymore you were stringing a bell to a broken collar, ensuring that the shepherd would never lose his goat.

I Ruin Moments

One of these days I'll be able to tell you how much I love you without the safety net of work doing it for me. One of these days I'll be able to tell you that I don't care if you want the Bride or the Whore as long as you'll let me continue loving and worshiping you as the King. One of these days I'll be able to tell you how much I selfishly hope that I'll go first because, like V$, I don't know how I'd survive being without you.

(In the off chance you DO go first, please be sure to leave a list of your preferred 6 or 7 "life force" friends in an easy-to-find place.)

(LOL, I RUIN MOMENTS. <- I NEED TO GET THAT ON A BUMPER STICKER.)

("I'LL DO IT LIVE!")