Out Here

The marmalade is with the glasses. Definitely not the strangest thing to be misplaced. That would be my dad. That’s hard to say, so instead it’s typed. There’s always “odd ones” out in all categories around the house, a consistent reminder of how they got there. He will say it was someone else that put it there a lot of the time. I know he gets tired of his reminders that his mind fails him. I know his true self has fallen deep in there with times there are stories he can finish, names he can better recall (he was always shit with names), words that come out how he means them, words that stay in because he understands not everything should be aloud. I haven’t seen that man in a while. I haven’t been the most patient with this one, I get pissed off. A child throwing a tantrum. “Where’s my dad?!” I know he’s here. Just not as I’ve known him. This is the other father, the older father, the sick father. I pat his back, bring him surprise chocolates, ask about his day, worry about where he drives, how he drives, how long until he loses that dignity, ask what he’s looking for, break down the words that aren’t fitting his mind’s constant puzzle, find the misplaced item. Remind myself this is the best it will be, hold onto the glimpses that come through. Be patient, be present, be understanding, be kind. Put the marmalade back in the pantry. Miss my dad.

My dad put frozen corn in the oven mits drawer. He couldn’t tell us what the vet said about our dog Izzie, or what the two different medications were for that they gave him for her. He asked me who people were in our family. He is saying awkward things more frequently. He uncharacteristically, creepily referred to one of my long time friends as “your sexy little friend.” He asked me three times what I am doing today. He thought my brother was forgetting him, but he was forgetting he told him not to come. He can’t answer a question without getting lost. He thinks if the curtains are open someone is more than likely photographing us for future blackmail. He thinks if mom goes on vacation she will get injured, or die. He picks fights then is confused why you’re speaking to him like that. He asks me if I’ve checked my oil, even after I’ve told him I have. Asks if I’ve talked to mom, even when I just told him what she said.

Not a fucking thing

When we first touched, I folded into him like I’d always been there. There were no questions, no doubts. Our eyes met, and I knew he saw me. The ugly, beauty, selfish, selfless, petty, open, hateful, loving ways of me, and he smiles. He’s gentle, but firm when needed. He listens, and responds accordingly. Never skipping over the small, sad, gross, or annoying parts, he’ll acknowledge all. He’s rational where I get carried away. He’s calming, grounding, balance. He’s beautiful. The most beautiful human to me in my life. He makes me laugh every day. He looks into me, not just at me. I know exactly where I go, and it’s with him. My man, for as long as he’ll have me.

Then the shadow was gone.

It’s overflowing, and I ride the waves.

I don’t have the attention span.

You’ve stood so close, your dick grazed my leg. “Fuck off, I hate that.” You smile, and say sorry. You sit next to me uninvited on the ground of the garden and set your hand on my knee. I slap it away. “Don’t do that! I hate it.” You laugh and say that’s why you do it. I’m holding my breath when you walk behind me. I brace myself ready to jerk away if you touch me. Knowing it’ll always be called an “over reaction”. I’ve said it dozens of times “I don’t want to be touched.” and it’s something you don’t accept, don’t respect. I’m sick of your hand leading you around my waist like you need guided to walk away. I’m clenching my jaw as you tell jokes starting to feel beastly myself. Your hand strays to caress my arm. I’m foaming at the mouth ready to lunge and tear it off with my teeth. My body on high alert when you are near, and that it’s no compliment. Every time you slip up and do this the rage in the cage rattles and this monster you poke bangs forward and gnaws on the bars. She wants to eat your heart, and shove your head on a spike.

There’s a man who comes around to see me here and there. We crawl into beds he’s too tall for and laugh as we flip through positions . He chuckles, “I think I’m too tall for this ride.”, as he try’s to slide in from behind and I bend over trying to put my ass up higher. We crack up and switch again. I feel him drive in deep and hit to the hilt, I swear he’s in my ribs. My moans stretch into guttural cries with each thrust. I ache when he’s gone. I feel him for days, and it’s a pain I crave. He gives off a hypnotic scent of oak moss and sage that enters the room before him, and lingers when he leaves. It makes it hard to forget him. When we first met I didn’t think he looked like his pictures. I froze a moment, taking him in. He made my knees twich, and I felt a stone drop and hit low in my belly. I was clumsy with the “How are yous”, led him into my room. I pushed off my feet to reach my mouth up up up to his. I felt disoriented up there. He steadied me, pulled me in. Kissed me deeper with his delicious lips. Directed me to the bed. “We’re going to play a game, do you know the rules?” Chills. I haven’t gotten off yet. I’m too scared to tell him he has to take his time. That it takes me time to get out of my head, and in the moment. I’m scared for him to become something familiar. Or worse, I become something familiar and learned to him. I know he’s not staying, he has an agenda. I’m a task to check off. That’s fine, I can revel in the pleasure while it’s here. I can appreciate the art of him while he lets me.