Diary entry: 9/3/17


Picture info:

Loathsome Passages

18×14 cm. oil on paper

Artist: Nickie Zimov

I live two lives when I think of you. So I try not to relive moments, as asked. It’s torturous to live this way. To love and to lust. If the two worlds would combine I could stop beating myself up over it. To find the love and passion I want, is to begin the search all over again. We always think we have the time. Most of the time when we speak you think I’m only speaking of you, but I share my secrets too. There’s more to me than just wanting. I’m a bit empty at the moment and when I try to possibly be rejuvenated, there’s always something. I live in two worlds and I am tired. My body quivers at the memory of your lips, how do I move on from all of this? I want to create new memories with a lover I can have for more than just a moment. More than just night. I want a greater lover. The greatest lover, the one I write about who makes me feel more than just alive and sexy. I want the lover that makes me feel like home, again.


Diary entry: 7/17/17


Artist: Serge Marshennikov

We are becoming reckless. And careless. Gifts. Morning kisses. Missed punctuations. What are we doing? How are we going to explain this? We knew this should’ve been us from the beginning. Why are we always so scared to ask for all that we want? This is no longer about just chemistry, no, this is about the recklessness in our actions. How terrible can two lovers be when nobody wants to leave?

I think we are reaching our limit.

Diary entry: 8/18/17


I will never not be convinced that something was there. At least more should have been explored. The idea of leaving was never enough during our time, but it was dangerously weighed. Do you ever wonder just how beautiful we would’ve become in the openness of passion? The what if’s will forever preoccupy a wondering mind. I hope you sleep better than I do. You will always be the only man I think about with regret.

My lover.

Diary entry: 7/24/17


“We should have never met”, is repeated almost every day. Reciting the same line in the mirror and then watching my hands try to replicate your touch. They search all

over for an opening. The discoveries are always exhilarating. The excitement is gripping. You can feel its origin pulsing rhythmically the deeper you get. I remember you whispering in my ear how much you loved the sensation of her pulling you deeper. What a joy it is to give myself so freely to you and watch as every inch of you disappears.

The adulteress


I should really be conducting myself better than this, being that I am practically a married woman, although everyone knows almost doesn’t count. But explain that to a man who comes from a home where love was never questioned. It’s hard to get a conditioned mind away from the concept of monogamy.

We met a couple years ago and I have not been able to get you off my mind, I mean even in my deepest thoughts you appear and I am excited, aroused and terrified. What does this mean for me? This is more than an obsession, you know that right? I communicate with you more than I really should but even when I want to stop I am tortured with the memories of our last evening together. I was so sore that morning but my body had no limits. The addiction, the moment you touch me, I swear my body comes alive and you wear me so proudly. I pretend to be timid so you can demand more of me, did you know that I love being told what to do? Sometimes I think I wrote you into existence, you’re just too perfect, my lover.  I am selfish for my desire of wanting to own you, of wanting you to only belong to me but my dear, I refuse to let go. The thought of another woman placing her lips where I’ve been so many times and not appreciating or relishing the deliciousness of you on her tongue, really brings forth a jealousy I didn’t think I had before our bodies were introduced. You need to be appreciated, in every manner and usage of the word.

Two Blue Cosmos


It’s not that easy to describe this addiction. The type of addiction that results in codependency. The type of addiction that reels its beautiful self at least twice a month on Tuesdays. Two blue cosmos, even though I said I would stop drinking. Even though I said it doesn’t always have to begin this way but smile under the terrible lightning of this bar. I love the way you taste. Tickling the back of my throat each time we meet. What’s better than this? What better way to enjoy our time than to a toast for each rendezvous that’s given? What did we call this again, survival? That’s right. Because we love love and we love who we love but the love carried in the middle of the night weighs far more than the love we cherish in the light. I wouldn’t say it’s the taboo of it, I think it’s a little deeper than that. The thrill of the act is gone and what’s left is pure, raw, unfiltered lust at the tips of our tongues. So we, continue to fill our glasses to the rim and carry on pointless conversation just as foreplay. And we sit back in the moments and playfully wonder what it would be like to escape together into a world where we don’t have to sit back and ponder on such trivial things. It would be as simple as taking a walk in the park on warm fall day, watching the leaves change and slowly wither off branches. Timeless, would be our word. No restraints. No curfews. A world without limitations. Easily can be created but where’s the fun in that? What fun is getting everything you want? Even if I had you, you don’t think I would want more? We live dangerously for perspective purposes only, constantly in battle on whether or not this is all real. I mean why else would anybody want to love? The addiction is not easy to describe, in the sense of why the addiction begins. Sometimes the feeling of helplessness, being at the mercy of something is more powerful than one thinks, but we can get to that another time.

Here’s a toast, to a lover so divine, that I’d risk it all to have another night beneath you.

Diary entry: 8/25/17


Perfectly polished rose gold glitter nails against the erected darkened flesh is, without a doubt, something to marvel at. Reflecting candlelight from around the room, the skin dances in delight. Soft colors of pink,blue, hints of yellow created by the flickering light cascading downward to where true desire lies. The position of hunger sets heavily on tender lips. It’s devouring, the sensation of wetness and warmth combining to produce the elixir of passion. What lies in a name during these moments you ask? Power, my dear, power.