Mirror image
Alone, always alone.
The ache of wanting you almost physical,
as if
someone extracted a piece of flesh
from my midsection with a dull knife.
The way the jagged shards of metal and glass cut into my skin
all those years ago in the crash
that wrenched you irrevocably away from me.
Standing there, my clothes discarded on the floor,
clad now only in a red satin slip,
I face myself in the full-length mirror by the dresser.
Watching myself, imagining
you looking at me.
The cool satin, smooth against my skin,
rustles as I reach up and unpin my
hair,
letting the soft tresses fall down my back as I shake them loose...
What would you be thinking now, if you could see me?
I imagine your eyes taking in my shifting curves underneath opaque satin
as I cross my arms over my breasts,
hands reaching up on my shoulders,
sliding the straps off first one shoulder, then the other,
then suddenly dropping my arms to let the red satin slither down my body.
If this were a movie, it would be a close-up, in slow motion,
of red satin flowing softly downwards,
revealing first my breasts with their taut, dark nipples,
then my stomach, belly,
crotch, and legs,
finally ending in a pool at my feet as the camera pulls back slowly
to reveal my naked entirety.
The light in the bedroom is unforgiving,
and I force myself to study my image.
My skin no longer smooth but criss-crossed with scars,
some tiny and barely noticeable,
others -
like the incision from the emergency laparotomy they had to do
- large
and puckered.
Scars like some obscene graffiti etched by an unknown artist
over the terrain of my body.
I wonder if you would still find me beautiful.
Would you still want to touch me?
I remember the feel of your hands now,
the way you used to love tracing my face,
my hair, my throat. I run my hand from my chin
and down the hollow of my throat,
trying to recapture the feeling.
I remember the feeling of your fingers over my breasts,
sometimes gentle, teasing, barely flicking over tightened nipples,
making me
arch my back to bring myself closer to you.
Other times, forceful,
almost brutal,
pinching and rubbing me swollen and raw,
until my body begged for your mouth
to cool down the heat.
They say the body never forgets, and neither do my hands,
exploring the terra incognita of my skin
made newly unfamiliar by the scars.
It's been so long since I've felt this way.
Sensation is a curious thing.
The scars themselves are numb,
but the
skin around them seems especially sensitive.
Just like memory; I can't remember the actual crash,
but the moments before and after seem especially vivid.
Waking up in the hospital, too-bright lights in myeyes,
pain burning a thousand places in my body,
I demanded to know how you were.
They wouldn't tell me about you at first.
That told me enough.
My finger traces the vertical scar
that runs from my navel to the top of my pubic bone.
The doctors did that one
to me,
opening up my abdomen to stop me from bleeding to death inside.
You once told me you loved
the way the skin on my belly quivered in anticipation
when you
trailed your soft kisses downward,
slowly teasing its way to its final destination.
At least this part of me was spared the violation of metal on flesh,
untouched in either the wreck or its aftermath.
I'm glad it's still
whole, just the way you would know it.
Still, I have to explore it, remember it again,
to get the strokes and caresses just right.
You
always knew where to touch me, better than I knew myself.
And I'm so wet down there already, the finger that I slide in tentatively,
almost
experimentally, comes away slippery and hot.
I close my eyes, lick my finger and taste myself,
recalling the way you enjoyed
my taste,
and suddenly it's your mouth around my finger,
your hands gripping my waist,
your rock-hard member nudging my thighs apart
to probe into my awaiting wetness.
Lost in your memory now,
I'm pushing one finger now, then two, then three, inside me,
imagining your thrusts going deep and hard as your desire gains urgency.
I arch my back up, hips grinding into my hand,
body bursting into beads of sweat as the excitement builds to a breaking point,
taking me back to the highway where we're speeding,
driving, losing all control,
rushing headlong towards the impact where we skidded and crashed
and the crumpling metal smashed into our bodies,
cutting my skin, breaking my
bones,
crushing you into the
steering wheel where you lay pinned and broken,
the life blood running red and pulsing out of your mouth.
The impact smashes
through my body,
culminating in a thousand little deaths that still bring me no closer to you.
My hand so wet now, cupping my throbbing flesh, knees buckling,
a soft moan escaping my lips as the sensation leaves my body
and your image fades.
Spent now, crumpled to the floor,
I wrap my arms around myself,
wishing they could be yours.
(c) 2001. Prima C.