Pixie Willo
Stories (3/0)
Her Breath
I laid across from her, watching her laboured breath rise and fall. The stark sheet lay like a fresh canvas between the both of us. My eyes stared into her hollow cheeks and now sallow skin. My mind wondered to all those times when we had been close, but never close enough. All those opportunities, awkward drinks in the pub, not watching the other undress in the gym. All those moments, those terrible drawn out moments that sometimes last an entire lifetime, kept secret in your heart, wrapped up for fear of rejection. Each moment now I waited between her breaths in one two three hold - where are you? who are you ? where are you now? that moment and now each and every one I hold as if it were all our moments tied together in a long swirling kite tail of yesterdays. In the hot springs in Iceland, at the summit of Matchu Pitchu, flying free on the back of your motorbike. I watch as a trickle of sweat forms a small rivulet down the narrow inlet of your back. I want to lick it off. I want to crawl over to you and press my naked body into yours, my breasts absorbing your moisture as a blanket, a cushion as a part of you. I want to lay behind you and cradle your fragility enveloping your fragile form, my fingers softly rubbing your pierced nipples. I want your eyes to open with burning desire even if no words are ever spoken and I am nothing but a dream to you. Yours eyes would flicker softly, slowly bringing me into focus. Cat like and purposeful, you have me. You finally have me and I am all you have ever desired. Holding my gaze, you become the tiger I
By Pixie Willo2 years ago in Filthy
Losing myself in societal relationship expectations
Her eyes were nothing except a flickering blur. Again the dim light outside penetrated her own perception and extended to the digits connecting with this tiny little device. She bought the phone three years ago because of its size and usability. Women’s pockets being almost non existent. Perhaps some deal the the handbag market had brokered to the clothing manufacturers. Of course women’s items must be kept external to her person as not to ruin their beautiful shapes. As an object to be stared at, as an object to be adored. Without identity without opinion, without threat to undermining judgment against the misogynistic cowardice and insecurities… Her mind wondered to just how many patriarchal conventions we acquiesce ourselves to? Even the term “the fairer sex” numbs behaviour with expectations and politely asks up to “please put that placard down and return to raising your children” “return to demurely pleasing your husband” Her mind wandered further to the eight years she had lived with a man and raised two children with. She felt like she had finally been accepted into the world into “normal society” a man who loved her! A good looking man at that! Wow!
By Pixie Willo2 years ago in Confessions