A favorite revisited, reposted

by natashanelsonart


‘Fire of my loins’
The left foot was nothing. Pure bliss and happiness, no thoughts, just doing. It was the right foot that brings me to this dramatic, baneful happening of self reflection and euphoria.
A sick euphoria that I only understand.
At least I tell myself that I am truly the only one who understands. Deep down I know this is false.
The hottest bath I have ever drawn. Not purposely. I just happened to be hopelessly caught up in finding the perfect depressing lyrics to accompany me with this soak that the amount of cold did not compliment the full blown heat nearing the rim of the plain, generic, ‘let’s pretend it’s porcelain’ bathtub.
Accidentally filling to capacity yet intentionally tormenting and inviting my body and vulnerability. The two go very well together…testing me.
It was my surrender.
My resignation to the defective complex created by something special.
A breakdown, a defect, a love story.
Eating away at my surface and my mind.
I hand my comfort over to the reflective alloy beside me as if it were my friend, telling me that this will go away.
It will.
This bath is my conflagration and I am only two feet in.
Slowly I subject myself to the purity before me ready to murk it up.
I suppose you can say I am just as well taking away it’s innocence in return.
My intentions are not as vulgar.
I force my skin into the burning pool.
A sigh of pain and pleasure prematurely escape.
I am never as strong as I presume and I am becoming increasingly aware that it is for my own safety.
This alloy slips below to remind me that everything is okay.
Reminds me that I am in control.
Something has to.
I am aware of it’s invisibility, that’s okay.
It takes a particular strength to release that admirable wavelength on the visible spectrum reflecting the paint to my existence.
It will never happen.
It would be so beautiful. So beautiful.
Mesmerizing and unlike any drug. Hypnotizing and sexual.
I am in a stupor.
It’s become too much I tell myself, though I know it has not.
My tresses drenches and the aching sensitivity running across my skin and lathering my scalp urges me to arise and come back to a life I have purposely tortured and teased yet fight for daily.
Collapsing is not far from reality.
So good. So legal.