to tell the truth!

Temptation comes from the place you feel vulnerable or unable to restrain yourself.  It came to me you were meant for a place to conceive a new dream for me.  I've carried this idea of you showering since I left the apartment today, and I wasn't going to admit it, but I must tell you I love you, and why. 

I deeply resent your numerous inconsistencies.  There live the person within you that loves and creates conflict. One of them is always angry, and any light shed on your craziness shuts you down, and you simmer dangerously close to rage. The other thing about that state of being is mean and divisive. It has killed me many times. Your scheme to sell our son while you were pregnant. The idea of denying my paternity while you were pregnant was itching within you until you worked to confront me with all of your rage you could not define or control. You think I am meant to take everything you dish out from the rage and the disappointment of your youth, or upbringing, and stamped out dreams. 

In the transfer of touch many things came to me from you, and the way, the powerful way you were meant to create and receive love was clear and in front of my mind's eye. My spirits' sense of who you are and what your authentic self looked like as a young woman and now as an older one are only different by the energy you feed more than the life giving one I needed from you to birth myself, and you needed to touch and explore the deep inner sanctum of your design. 

I love you, but the depth of it was scorned, I learned, by the training you received in your formative years. I suffered deeply from the brute force of it, and was healed by it when you were clear and your pussy was safe and warm to return to. But you don't understand any of that. I do. Your son suffers from it now, and you won't recognize it. It is killing him and destroying your relationship with him the way you berate him and kill his dream of college with rage and inconsistencies.

He is my son too. You needed and wanted me to seed your eggs. It was my penis, my manhood you craved and needed to fulfill your womb, your pussy, your heart.  I was the man, the only man you loved and wanted to father your children, and I was able to fulfill that primal need willingly. But what man has the strength to receive such brutal blows to the heart of his Medicine, the core of his manhood, and the pride of manhood on a yearly basis as you dished shit out with accuracy and rage. It was unreasonable, but that was your other person living in you.

I love you for every reason I've told you over the past 30 years. I can't add anymore. Nor, can I fully explain why knowing your patterns. I still wait for your storm to pass for those few weeks of a year to feel the joy of reciprocated love from  you, long conversations with you, walks, if we can, and the remote chance and privilege to share a bed. Whether we make love or not is secondary to the intimacy, and the time to allow you to be yourself.  The natural and beautiful you have held an enchantment over me for decades. It is a light, your light you can’t stand with. I love light, but it causes serious things in you that terrify me.

You complain about the weight you've gained and the forms your body has taken on continue to stir my blood because it is and always has been the Goddess form within you I cherished. I love your body, and what it looks like naked. The Goddess within you is you. It is the you; the form of the songs I wait for with a Hunter's patience to see, to touch.  I love you deeply beyond the pain you inflict without consideration on people who adore you.  You have so many hurts. That is not what drove me away from you, my wife.

I learned you will eventually lash out when you are adored  cherished and loved in ever growing ways. It is a consistent trait that has left you alone with your ghosts, and unreasonableness, but still I wait for those glimmers of sun's rays, the small chance I might be able to sit close to you in a chair, at an assembly, a church; anywhere.  Anyway, I love you!  

© Kayode (Gregory E. Woods) 

breasts & stomach of a woman. . .