Thursday, February 10, 2011

Sweet dreams (are made of this)

My first creative writing for the blog, tell me what you think.


I make my cake and eat it too.

Kiss me, run your hands over my body. Lick the icing before it hardens. Matt my hair beneath our heads; a makeshift pillow in desperate times. Rake your fingers through and become trapped.

Watch my precision, my timing, eloquence and grace fall away, till I am just touch, a feeling. Watch solitary strands cling to damp skin as limbs contort. Make me drunk on oxygen, heady after each breath, intoxicated.

Unwrap me. Let me peel off your protection, press my teeth against the foil and scrape away what is left. Salvia pools in delicate places, we shudder and consume our ecstasy.

Watch my skin rise and fall like greedy mountains that gobble. My skin is white flour, satiny. Falling away at the slightest breeze and catching in your throat. You lick your lips. Sickly sweet.

But between us, him and I, the bowl lies in wait and our hands move in symphony. The butter glides over anniversaries, dates and rings. We melt together on the couch, whilst I measure out my life with coffee spoons. His hands slip around my waist, my neck, my feet, kneading the dough, stirring the sugar.

Time rises with the clock and dust settles like the years. He brings me tea in bed, weak but comforting, the tea leaves dance around the rim, around my mouth. Drops and crumbs adorn my sheets, a sepia film. We laugh and collapse into a pile of feathers, tossing my duvet into whipped cream.

We are creating something, making mistakes. He pours too much, but I am always dry. I teach him how to fold. Carefully our linen merges together, stolen jerseys and woollen socks, blended with fresh cashmere purchases. My closet engulfs his, but I spend my years dressed in the smallest threads, more naked than naked. He’s watched me undress, slip between the sheets. Caused me, watched me, stopped me crying myself to sleep. I bake a life for him.

But then with you...

Everything is different. We knock over bowls; you rip the satin, throw eggs on the floor and drip milk over my body, in haste, in desperation. There is delicious destruction. Ravaging ravishment. You are noxious. A wicked binge. Toxic.

After the gluttony, I look at the mess I’ve created and feel sick.


Anonymous said...

Guess Who :)
I always love your writing sare :) havent read some for awhile.

Sarah said...

Thanks missy, I'm glad you dropped in for a read! No point writing without an audience! x

Anonymous said...

this is insane. your talent amazes me, makes me feel.

Sarah said...

Thankyou Anon (who I'm guessing is Andrea?) I'm so glad people are actually reading my writing. It's very lonely to write to noone. x

Anonymous said...

tis indeed me, of course. i feel like your female stalker.

Sarah said...

Just like how I stalk you.. I mean, what? nothing... *twiddles fingers*