I’m at the point where I don’t believe in penetration love. Because I have been penetrated by love all too many times that makes me think just like ‘love’ it has lost its meaning. Surrounded by mosses, formed scabs, new skin is sewn until they no longer exist. When I hear about the words ‘making love’ makes me run away from an allergy I couldn’t even scratch. All those nights and days of cold and hot we made love. I made love to you. But while I was enjoying every second of it there you were looking at the white ceiling thinking about someone else and something else. So making love is not for me. And I will not be that same stuffed animal you fill with lies and tomfoolery. Always getting either a platter of your hatred or a box filled with exaggerated excuses.
But if in case, I survive yet another heart surgery, know that I will not make-believe.
My fate will uncork before me. I’ll just watch and wait for what it will offer me.
Because..
Again,
If another man shows up and asks me to ‘make love’ with him, I will not laugh. I will not be reluctant to tell him to just
“Do it with another body part”
In a way that’s totally different from what I used to have; used to receive. That way I can accept a new and genuine love. A love I long have tried to evade.
A composite of me and the universe 