the accidental martyr

what could possibly be this malleable line of accountability. when do your friends start ruining your life. when do you finally confront them, only to have their voices quiver and heighten in lieu of an apology. 'we really just didn't think about it' is the tenant of a dissolving life force. this is the second year of this accidental martyrdom. one domino that unseats half a decade of assault and deceit.

i now think of myself five years ago. bathed in the soft glow of privilege and self loathing; struggling to fit in despite a raging superiority complex and inferior intimacy complex. the intimacy has since not been solved, as i undertake another sexless 18 months. saying it makes it only subtly less true. i see myself cumming over and over atop ben's sad silent body; him tugging too tightly at my nipples, waiting for me to meekly push his hands away, waiting for me to use my words. waiting for me to tell him what i want and where i want it. it's never going to happen. i want to push it farther and farther down until i never have to say the words or feel his hands or cock again. i feel the guilt of making out with a stranger hours and even days later, and remind myself that there must be some reason for feeling this way.

when faced with a lifetime of micro and macro sexual aggressions (mainly from family + religion) repentance comes in the form of 'going wide'. satisfy a sexual urge by making sure men want to fuck you but never acquiesce and let anyone fuck you. after 18 months, carefully select a tall dark haired man to re-take your virginity and use your re-learned sexual words and phrases upon his hands and cock.