15 Apr Edges and scraps

This is an edge. A sharp edge where my fears balance between what I can or cannot control.

A blank, shiny, silver edge making me think about trust and about wounds. All in very relative terms, in that way which consist of small flashes or coherrent, rational thought that only break through ever so briefly. Breaking through the pumping of adrenaline. My skin can break from the instrument in your hand, a wound can open up and there is blood between every layer of skin if you cut deep enough. You are not going to cut my skin though, you are not wounding me, you are bending my trust deeper and deeper.

And your body is close to mine, every movement controlled, and I’m trying to control mine. I can smell you, hear your breath, so slow. Feel your skin against mine, so warm. The wall is pressed into my back, sheet crumbles beneath my legs. My legs are shaking, your hand is not shaking. At first glance you are only cutting away my underwear, reducing it to shreds and scraps, a surgery to remove that which is between my body and yours. A removal of clothes by a method of which I am so utterly terrified. On a second thought it is the surgery which bit for bit, increase the fear, making it visible, to slice and cut away.

I recall I had this idea, this thinking of how it would look like, how it would feel. How your knife would just slice the bra off my body and then my panties, and it would be over quickly and you would throw me down to the floor and I would be able to breathe again because it would be over and the pain of your fists would bring me back to processing physical pain. Physical pain is easier.
The fear which comes with knives is different, it is like a pain that stretch the body out and firing signals telling me things like; keep still or die; move, get away or die. I have never been afraid of dying, only of being killed, of loosing that control. Flight or fight response is not perhaps that much of a controlled thing, but it is a response where you can do something. I cannot do anything only, only able to keep absolutely still, while you play with your knife through the fabrics closest to my skin. I actually don’t remember how it felt when you cut my panties, how you reduced them bit by bit to pieces of scrap fabric. No memory of this process only the slow burning of tears in the corner of my eyes.

There was memories attached to that bra, of expectations and longings and even a heartbreak. Sometimes, what we wear closest to the body is not made of fabrics, but is made out of attempts to be closer, to find trust and belonging. Attempts of sweet release, and brutal, heart wrenching surrender. Those attempts can be successful, but they also leave you with traces of them behind. Small shards that easily get buried close to the surface of the skin, getting pushed out to defend oneself against trust tries to push it self in. Pushed out to protect the body, or forced out by the force of that kind of trust which does not allow them to act as razorsharp armor.

I am so tired of wearing shards, it has become heavy. I have tried for such a long time to allow myself to be distrusting while still feeling all of the feelings. Allowed myself to doubt, to hesitate, to drown out in the fear of not being enough, not being that which people believe that I am.
Imposter syndrome. It is an armor that gets heavier and heavier, because it is harder to build trust than it is to rebuild it.

But as you slowly cut the layers away, bit by bit, that blank, sharp edge of your knife somehow makes me give that up, I can almost hear the sound of the armour falling to the floor in the same time as the black fabrics slowly is snowing down over the white sheet.

That is because in this space, with your knife, that silvery blade cut so close to the edges and when you are that close to skin, there is no place for distrust.

Later, when you had stood on me, when you had let the fists rain and the boots grind against my skin, when you had pulled the sheet over me, and I was resting my head in your lap and slowly stroking your crotch and then suddenly stroking your cock and then suddenly having it inside my mouth, slowly letting my tongue work in ways I know it is good at I realised how long ago it was since I had done something overtly sexual in a public playspace. How, except for the play with someone who I then trusted, I had became one of those perverts; “no sex please, we are perverts”. And I was ashamed somehow, waiting for a voice to tell me off, waiting for a dungeon monitor to tell me to take that cock out of my mouth and clean up. It never came, and the shame was transformed into a pleasure and the tears that moved down my cheeks were not because of fear but came from another place completely.

And if that is not trust that has broken through barriers of self-doubt and distrusting armor, I don’t know what is.

I keep scraps of what used to be a painful reminder in a bundle, and as I get now get through a painful breakup it will instead be another reminder, of how close to those edges I can walk, and how intensely and trustingly I need to live in order to breathe without armor. .

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