Sometimes I remember, that when I was strange, I'd somehow end up laying naked on the floor, in a nice little ring. Curled up, with my teeth into my knees, and I'd stay awake for hours, watching old re-runs of Leave it to Beaver, and laugh like a mad man whenever the family got together for the good ending.
When I was strange, I would wear this royal blue dress I wore to my mother's wedding. I would talk out loud to my imaginary friends. I would talk to myself in the mirror, like all people when they're strange. I'd want to be on the other side. I like to yell at the stranger. I like to scream and cry and bang hard upon the glass. I like to play with my toys, sometimes too. When I'm strange. When I'm strange, I clear tables in fits of rage and pain, like an animal recieving shock. When I'm strange, I am trapped, so I tear things off the walls. When someone kisses me, and I'm unwilling, it feels like an invasion, it feels like violatation. It feels like fucking hell. It shocks me. It scares me. A good kiss, feels passionate, and soft, and is well paced, almost like a massage along another's tongue. Almost as though your tongue were to play with another. It makes you as wet as your mouth. Your pulse quickens, and you'd do anything to keep the butterflies in your stomach from shutting down. You want to eat your lover, you want them more inside of you, like from their mouth had given you these butterflies of ecstacy. I want to be able to feel your heart beat in complete and utter rythm with mine, I want to breathe you in like oxygen. When you pull away to take a breathe, your loosend lips, and the sound of your heavy one taken breath, is unbarable to me. You have become a life support, and your teasing of life has been quite passionately cruel, though I love the sound, because it makes me think of the amazing sex we could have, and with that, I push my body harder onto yours, and I grasp on to your clothes, trying to fight the urge to ripp them off of you. The silence, and the sounds you make, when I feel you up, and you can't help but release a sign of pleasure, again, pushed out oxygen, a moan, a cry. Anything under me.
