COBBLED

I’m in that phase again. When the same song is playing over and over and I get sucked into the memories that haven’t happened yet. The memories, that I’m just busy creating in my head over the events that never took place. Not yet. I write in anger. And under influence of huge amounts of caffeine in my blood. I write when drunk and when the furious bursts of emotion are exploding inside me.

My head, so firmly on the ground. The eyes run miles and miles across the smallest details of those tiny stones. The fragments of the daily being, unnoticed by the passers-by. The sun is setting down and I can smell the odour of the day just gone. It lingers in the air around me, shifting the swirly pattern of my thoughts towards the light in front of me. Imaginary music plays loud in skies above and drips down on me, one inspirational note at a time.

I toss and turn, trying to find the right angle to express myself. The criticism acts like the best drug to try harder. To prove you wrong, to prove me right. To feed my vanity, that has been screaming for some time now.

I turn the music louder and sip some coffee. I only wish for words to go down as easily as that bitter drink of mine. I close my eyes and let it go. I’ll keep you close, if you promise to keep me under the spell of yours.

– Chatty Owl has left the building –

DON’T YOU KNOW, I DIED FOR YOU?

Life, as you know it.
Comfortable, like an old pair of Converses.
It’s easy to get sucked into a living according to the books.
Living out a dream. The one, that’s green in colour and soft to touch.
I despise…
Runny eggs.
Mainstream music.
Coffee without the personal touch.
Bright colours.
While you’re busy indulging in all this, I…
Hum to soft tones that fill my room.
Drink bitter coffee with no milk or sugar.
Watch a movie in a foreign tongue.
Wonder what’s in your backpack.
Peek into the book a stranger is reading on the train.
Over-use the word “the”.
Write letters to strangers.
Dream a dream. The one, that’s red in colour and sharp around the edges.

– Chatty Owl has left the building –

SIN

Praise me. About everything and anything, so I could justify my urge to bask in the light of my pride and vanity.

Love me. Sweetly and truly, so I could envy you for being able to just feel that.

Kiss me. So I could kiss you back and get obsessed with how those lips just lock together. I want to never get enough of this and feel how gluttony really feels like.

Look at me. With that spark in the eye, so I could lust for you and fall asleep with dirty kinky thoughts that have no shame.

Abandon me. (But please, don’t mean it). So just enough to make me fume and let my anger out in bursts of orange fire.

Please me. Slow and rough. The way that only you know how to. And make me greedy for some more and more, to the infinity.

Spoil me. Stupid. So I just lie there lifeless and with no determination to wake up. Ever.

I live my life in tiny little circles. As weeks go by with endless repetitions of the seven, so are my sins. Some deadly ones. They orbit my existence in this magic number and I enjoy it.

You are my biggest deadly sin above them all though…

– Chatty Owl has left the building –

OVER-RULED

These words of mine are not for you,
they are for me.
To sulk in my own misery
of thoughts.
To get it off my chest
and wipe the sheet of days
white-clean again.

I’m restless.
Pacing.
Overwhelmed.
I’m longing for your words
in sounds of sadness,
tunes of low.

Oh how I loved it –
being cold.
And brutal.
And sadistic.
I found content in all of that.
Before, not now.
Today I’m over-ruled
by you.

That hint of arrogance in low-toned voice.
The pinch of sadness in those sentences that reach me.
I’m over-ruled by you,
completely.
I’m obsessed.
And yearning for your presence deep within me.

– Chatty Owl –

AM I YOUR POSSESSION?

I walk around the busy streets of London. The damp smell of old bricks, the rusty touch of iron gates and moldy memories of years gone. I feel at home. Like a dancer on the floor I swirl around, head held high and I can’t help but notice stares and gazes at me. I remember how I used to love dancing.

High tones, low notes.

High heels, low dresses.

Sounds of tango and the noise of dancing shoes. Sweaty bodies, fiery eyes and dizzy heads after a while. The power of music (just like the touch of those hands on my back) used to dig deep under my skin and leave me breathless on the floor. Horizontal.

I miss all this.

The passion to dance.

The passion to kiss.

The passion to make spontaneous decisions.

– Chatty Owl has left the building –

ICE QUEEN

Relationships. Friendships. The invisible thread that connects two people. How does our brain single out a person in a crowd and send the vibes to form some kind of friendship? There are millions of people that are in our every day lives. We brush our shoulders against them on a train, we exchange glances in the street and only some of them make their way into our lives. What is that connecting bridge that makes us click with some and not the others?

I had people in my life that were nothing but the best for me. Attentive, caring, willing to move mountains for me. As friends. As lovers. As people. But the feeling wasn’t there. No matter how hard I tried to give them a chance to make their way into the deepest corners of my mind, I just couldn’t make it happen. And there were situations like these that gave me the reputation that I have now. Cold-hearted. Spoiled. Vain and arrogant. Selfish. And I guess I am like that to some extent, but because that mental connection, that electric thread that connects me with those people, is not working.

I grew up always feeling that I’m letting people down. I’m hurting them. I’m taking them for granted and toying with them like a spoiled brat. It used to really get me down, making me think that I’m really made of stone and should warm up to the society more. That I should stop being this monstrous beast that is living the life of hurting the others. Should get my heart broken for once. (Still hasn’t happened yet). But I just couldn’t relate to the majority of the society. I couldn’t link to those little soldiers of human population.

And here I am. A third of my life gone already. The sea of people still floating around my shores and I’m making my way through them. Unaware of  their glances. Oblivious to their willingness towards me.  But then the ironic reality bites me in the ass. I get sucked into a social network of modern civilization, where that mental wire, that connection, is thrust upon me in such a shock, I’m left speechless. My brain made me single out a person, that I’ve never met in my life. The connection was just there. It worked. Clicked.

And so there is. A new friendship of untouchable being.

– Chatty Owl has left the building –

TICKLED PINK

 The softest cloud of silky feathers. Those tiny yellow eyes that camouflage as big. The wings of plume that tickle every square millimetre of your skin. Like an illusive lover she curves her body onto yours, leaving a thin shadow of herself. The nature taught her how to be almighty quiet. Silent and invisible.
You’re sleeping. And only claws that dig into your flesh like mighty words will wake you up. To leave you with a mark and single feather. Something to remember her by. Tickled pink.

– Chatty Owl has left the building –

WET

It’s cold outside. I’m watching the gloom of London rain and whistling wind from my window and smile at my own reflection. My inner owl is back for a short while and I’m enjoying her company. Sarcastic conversations and derailed innuendos paid me a visit today.

I smile at the reflection again and touch it with my fingertips. It touches me back and this feels so surreal. Owls in double. I trace the drops of rain with my fingers and suddenly realise my reflection is rebelling. My inner owl is fluttering her eyelashes at me and refuses to mimic what I’m doing.

I smile. It winks.
I wink. It ducks.
I duck. It frowns.

And then it happens. I feel the touch. The presence is so vivid, I look around me just to be sure I’m definitely alone. Well, sort of. Hello again, my naughty inner owl…

Soft touch.
Gentle whisper.
A moving swirling tongue.
A hand.
Impure thoughts.
And wetness on the hand.

You’re toying with my mind the way you want to and I enjoy it. You force my thoughts to dance at your played tune and I don’t even dare resist it. Inhale. Exhale more loudly. You have your way with me just with your words.

The gloom of London rain is loud and wet. And so am I. Because you’re toying with my head so bloody much, my man of faraway land…

– Chatty Owl has left the building –

SEX


Sex. Every time I read about it, it’s always those sloppy stories about midnight kisses, touches in the dark and loud moans. Orgasms with a bitten lip and scratches on one’s back. This ideal picture of something glamorous and wonderful. Let me tell you something. That eye candy of two people locked together in a perfect composition of love is a total bullshit. Reality? Hair in your mouth, uncomfortable positions, spasms in your left leg and bumped heads.

Oh yes, I’m bitter. I’m always very bitter about life and things around me. I’m cold too. And also, I’m the least romantic girl on this earth. You know, being sweet is overrated. So is sex. So stop counting those 11 minutes of tangled bodies and enjoy what matters the most – the peak of pleasure. In the end, that’s all that’s important. Short pleasure and my back turned to you.

Mind blowing sex with the perfect heat in the bedroom, where you can feel tension buzzing is reserved for next time. Stay tuned. I might stop being so cold one day.

– Chatty Owl has left the building –

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