Knowing words were my weakness, he wrote to me. He wrote not as a writer but as a man reaching out to a woman, a woman he was sure he loved, a woman he was sure was meant to be, a woman he was sure was his. A woman who loved words.
He wrote to expose me, my passion for words and art, and word art. He wrote to pull me in so he could push in. He wrote to spread his vulnerability so he could spread mine. He wrote to be what he was not. He wrote to take what was not his, what had been held close to me, what had been denied him. He wrote because a week was too long to wait after a first date.
I gave in to his words. I gave in to his touch. Passion and pleasure perfected in a coming together like I had never experienced. Every touch, electric. Every whisper, inviting. Every look, passion. Every move, pleasure. Bodies merging, melting.
I gave in to his words. I gave in to his touch. But it was not him. I imagined who he wanted me to imagine. A giver, a lover, a writer. A man with passion. A man in awe of me. A man exposed, naked, and open, not guarded, covered, and closed.
I opened and he took everything from esteem to vitality.
I don’t read it the same any more. I don’t like it. I think it’s scary, what it reveals about him all these years later. He writes me in thru a window like a thief or a concubine. He writes me seducing him beyond all control. It reads like a rape warning.
He writes me as a form, as an animal, as an energy, but not as a woman. He didn’t see me as a woman. He saw my woman’s body. He saw my woman’s face. He didn’t see me.