words words words

Sometimes I feel as though words are too much, but then my thoughts continue to spin and what good has it done me in the petty refusal to put them to paper? None really. They are still there, in fact they seem to grow weight each day and so, I surrender. Here are my words. Good, bad, ugly, all of the words. May they free me from the cling of melancholy.

He freed her. I almost understand that. What I grieve is that neither of them saw the need or even desire in letting me say goodbye. The deed was done long past whn finally he admitted it. By then, who knows. She might well be in Tor by now, or Schendi or hell, maybe she has fallen to another's collar. I wouldn't know. She was my friend and he my Master. I assumed too much I suppose in thinking that either factored in the ripple effect every action has.

Maybe I have no right to be upset by it all. Too bad. I am. I am upset about a lot of things these days and all of them each to its very core comes back to my growing belief that I am simply not quite right. I feel very much as if the tide is going out as I stand still, mired deeper and deeper in sand and helpless against the rising waters. I suppose it is fitting for a slave be that...helpless.

I do not like change especially. I go to the parks and feel a sense of loss, no more fireside talks, no more going to familiar feet and being permitted to touch and be touched. Kade has barely looked upon me in a hand or more now. I will not pretend it does not hurt. The Scribe is a busy man, but I will not pretend that I do not crave time with him. Zebediah is my Master, but he is nursing a hurt I am not fully sure he knows he has. The Magistrate, he too has had little use for me.

I feel many things. Jealous, insecure, hurt, lonely, hopeful, sensual, emboldened a bit, steady. So many contradicitions. Maybe steady is not so good when all around me turns like a mosaic that spins too fast to follow the stories told in each tile and bit of glass. I don't know and that simple truth irritates me all to hell. I prefer to know things.

I know I am fuckable, desireable, sensual, outspoken, salacious, wanton. See, those are things I can hold tight to. They do not change. Except when they do, as in the desireable part. Still, the rest hold true.

I want to be the lovely dancer setting the pole afire, I wang to be the slave called to a man's side and held close, stroked and petted. Hell, sometimes, in my most secret self I want to be the slave that is loved, though I'd settle for lovable. These are all just words though, silly useless self serving pathetic words that can burn to ash in a heartbeat.

He asked me if I needed to be coddled. No. I do not need to be. Sometimes I want to be but that brings me back to feeling versus knowing versus wanting. Here on these pages I can spill out my thoughts and feelings. Nowhere else. A smiling slave is a pleasing slave and it is no lie, no front, no deceit. I will live for him, for the men I serve. I even take pleasure in doing so, for while I stand knee deep in rising waters, they deserve and will have better of me than they have of late.

The words? Are just that, words on a page. Of no consequence whatsoever.