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chemical reactions, fiction, poetry

Let Her Go

Her secrets were whispered to me in soft touches, lips lisping against the curve of my ear, hazy gazes into my eyes, fingertips pressed into the nape of my neck, teasing soft curly hairs, playing with pulse points and prime meridians.
[let it go]

Her desires were told to me by weight on my thighs, a nose to my collarbone, a forehead burrowed into a shoulder; the clasp of a palm above the bones of my wrists, less captive more gently, firmly held. Ankles intertwined.
[let it go]

Her regrets were teeth to my trapezius, closed fists against tightened biceps, breaths blessing the flats of hands to my latissimus dorsi, my indelicate vertebral column, my coxae.
[let it go]

I never wanted so long with so little for so little. I never felt shame so humbling at the reality that this, all of it, was nothing more than the waking dream woven by sirens before they turn into banshees that destroy. I, like Samson, let her cut my hair. Like David, I coveted something that was not mine to have – I tried to take it.

My freeness of speech sacrificed on the altar of a false god.
[let her go]


About Quinn

In it but not of it. A reformed player, now watcher. Speaker of raw truths.



  1. Pingback: Curtain Call | "Raw" She Said - 25 December 2013

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Raison d’etre

"Raw," she said. "I want something primal. I want something bare and naked. I want you to give me this life raw, unbidden, unhidden, free, fair, and true. Can you do that? Can you do that for me?"

One may only try.

March 2013
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