12 of 365: Why

Lately people have been shooting my ears with questions like “Why do you like to write?”, and I’ve been caught off-guard every time, not really having a reason to like what I do or even know why I do it. I can counter with “Why does anyone do anything?”, but my own answer leaves me feeling unfulfilled and empty.

Why do I do something that I like and try so hard, when I probably won’t ever make it anywhere? Why do I take time out of my life and strain my eyesight, wrack my brain for words to form sentences I haven’t seen yet. How many words do we have in our vocabulary to make a new sentence? How do I know that what I’m saying doesn’t already exist?

I don’t know. Those are way too many questions.

But I–I don’t know why I like writing, per say. I like how words make emotions and experiences eternal. I like how personal they are, written down and kept forever. I like how everyone reads it in their own voice, adding their own meaning and sighing because they find bits and pieces of themselves in these words.

I like making things? I like creation, I should say. I like coming up with worlds and people and societies, and I like watching them grow or destroy.

I don’t know, I like it because I like other things so–it’s just my second nature? An affinity I have? A talent I’ve developed over time?

I don’t know. Stop asking me why I do things.

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9 of 365: Interosculate

You hide your thumb in the space between your fingers, down the cheap wine in one go and let your body beat into the world your mind is escaping. Because your hand can still feel pudginess around your waistline you swallow another glass of wine, a shot of vodka, and half a glass of Jack Daniels before all of the weight goes to your head and your body becomes light, the way you’ve always wanted it. You can’t keep a single thought going, can’t string together any doubt because your mind is gone and your body is flying, hips swinging, arms wrapped around the neck of a warm stranger.

He turns you around, and you let him. He grinds into you, and it goes straight to your clit. You push back because you enjoy a tease, and he holds on tighter, like letting go meant his last breath.

One minute you’re rutting against a stranger on the dance floor, the next, he’s fucking you in the bathroom, nails digging into your hips, and you want it, you want it, you want it so bad, you want it harder, God, just fuck me like you mean it–

He does. You feel the sparks firing at the tips of your toes, the turning of your stomach, and the white noise that finds you at the peak of an orgasm. He tenses behind you, rides it out and there you both are, gasping together, his hands planted on either side of the stall so he doesn’t collapse over you.

His hands slide over your skin, and your thoughts are lazy, your body excited, but you’re becoming aware of how intoxicated you aren’t. His fingers are over your stretch marks, caressing your rolls. He pulls out just then, turns you over and kisses you slow, and you think–everyone deserves to be kissed like this.

“I’m–I’m Josh,” he says breathlessly, eyes falling to your lips and glancing back. They’re a deep brown, intense and beautiful.

You give him your name, and he smiles, wrapping his arm around your waist. This is different, you think. But it isn’t bad.

“I know we just–met, and all, but. I can buy you something to eat, maybe? I mean we just,” he laughs, his head indicating what they’d just done, “You know. But–”

“We can eat,” you say, because why the fuck not.

He smiles, helps you get dressed again. This is definitely different, and it was good. It was so good.

6 of 365: Macaron

Life allows us small luxuries when our clothes start to hang off our bodies, tired and ragged after the frustration of not being good enough long enough. At times, the luxury appears in the form of a petite french pastry, or of a friend’s laugh, warming up our insides like sunshine. The experience is ephemeral, but it isn’t about the brevity of something good–instead it’s of savoring the stage.

Keep your hands out of your pockets and pull the clouds away from the sun. Let the light make love to your skin. Let its warmth remind you of the reason you breathe.

Do you need a reason to not enjoy the good things?

5 of 365: Star

There’s stardust on the edges of your eyes, sharp and glittering like ceremonial knives.

“Try not to miss,” I say, and the next thing I knew, the nebulae in your eyes darken, the starlight dances across your arm and fingers as you pull and release your bow and arrow.

You smirk at your accuracy, my mouth falls open at how precise you are; I think I might have fallen.

3 of 365: Summersault

I haven’t done one since I was eight. I remember, because when I was nine my mother placed me in an after-school program called Little Shepard. The program arranged a number of trips. That summer we visited a gymnasium where I tried to perform a summersault for the first time in a while. I felt a strain in my neck, and stopped out of fear.

A boy whose sleeves spilled onto the mat offered to help, but I jumped up and politely refused.

“One more time!”

It’s eleven years later. I’ve been pushing myself for a while, pushing my feet against the mat, watching the drops of sweat that slide down my jaw, but my breath isn’t heavy with my new stamina. My shoulder aches after constantly hitting the ground sideways, but it doesn’t stop me. I want to do this.

“Come on!” I boom. My mother gives me a wary look before approaching.

“This is the last time,” she says.

I’ve been afraid of doing this since I was nine, fearing the strain in my neck. The fear solidified over the years, worse due to the extent of my experiences. My neck manages my paralysis and nightmares; it manages how high I hold up my head, how I breathe with or without someone’s hands wrapped around them. My neck collects clusters of stress. No one can kiss the anxiety away, but I don’t need them to.

I can handle it.

“Okay.” I inhale sharply and throw myself back. She helps with a push.

I roll, I crouch, I’m on my feet. My grin seems to blind her.

“I knew that time you’d be able to do it,” she praises, and walks off.

2 of 365: Stomach

He wakes with his belly facing up. He holds a pillow over his eyes, lazily swipes at the streak of dry spit at the edge of his mouth. He peeks from underneath the pillow, stomach dropping at the sight he only thought he dreamt about. He strangles a yelp, moves so fast to hide that he feels the strain on the inside of his thighs, the soreness around his arms and shoulders. He moans into the pillow. There’s a storm in his belly.

“Are you okay?”

He flinches at the voice, the deep sound of it soft and wary. He swears he’s in a shipwreck, he could die here, but his stomach flips when the voice calls out to him again, and he swears in death he could be happy.

He mumbles something.

“…uh. What?”

“I said come back here.” He pauses, peeks out and pouts. “Please.”

The voice doesn’t call out to him, but a hand wraps around his bare stomach, pulling into a warm chest. A leg swings over his own and he pushes back, his lips stretching into a smile at the small moan he hears. He finds the hand around his stomach and locks their fingers together. The storm in his stomach seems to settle. ┬áHe relaxes to the warm breath in his hair.

“You hungry?”

“Is that a real question?”

“I was just asking.”

“Uh, I could use something to eat.”

“…Your breath stinks.”

“Asshole.”