Broken Tiles

You’ve got my head spinning so fast that it makes me dizzy. So dizzy that I fall to the ground my hands landing in the rips of the carpet that squares the tile floor. The glass and sheetrock staggered all around sifting and grinding under my fingernails. The blood rushing to my head and falling like droplets, but its not blood; it’s tears. The salt taste rest on my lips as they quiver from the scared that shakes my frame so.

But- I love all of you though, still I am left wondering how I can make a clean break, how can I run as far away to the corner of the world that floats beneath me. Yes I am flying, flying free, breaking free. Yet, I am still chained… to another predestined atmosphere. Will I ever escape this circle? This pattern? This every day life? Will I really break the cycle and go to where I was created? Or will I suffer indefinitely?

For once I thought that giving my all to someone would be easy but I have found that I want most of those parts of myself back. I don’t know who’s going to kiss you when I am gone. I don’t know who will be there to pick your chassis back up and put you back to pieces. We used to be the glue to each others broken pieces, but that glue has turned to opposite ends of the magnet. Pulling our pieces back apart, everything we have built, starting all over again. Every brick I lay as foundation… it gets torn down with words, actions, and ridicule. I feel so defeated. I lay my entire mentally beaten body down and fall back into the clouds. The clouds of denial. The soft clouds that bring stillness to my bag of bones.

I feel desolated, dejected. I feel broken more now that I have ever felt in my life. It’s hard getting that out of my mouth. Because trust me I have been through a lot. It sounds so dirty. I feel dirty, and used and broken and beaten. Yes I know I’ve already said this and I sound like a record skipping just when it gets to my favorite part. but, every time things are going great something bad always happens.

So I cuddle up with my pillow between my legs and one behind my head and one to hold onto throughout the night as I fall asleep and hope that I wake up tomorrow. Or do I? Hinds sight isn’t always so bright.

The second attempt

Tasha Geller-Hollingshead ©copyright 2016

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The elevator

Just as the elevator starts to close, those long fingers reach inside to open them up again, we are back in each others company once more.

He stares into my eyes as I watch him. He slowly lowers his eyes to my big  C cup round pale breasts that set inside my silky lace bra peeking out from my shirt. I hear him gasp as he notices what I am wearing under my shirt. I raise my hand and stop the elevator. He shakes his head in disbelief , I am questioning his faithfulness he think to himself. I put my finger up to my mouth and place it over my lips to imply “be quiet”. I lift my lip up and slide my first finger all the way in my mouth, sucking on it letting it go in and out. I see a small budge start to build up in his pants. As he watches, no moving, no doing anything but…..watching, I take my hand and trace it from the bottom of my neck and brush over my shoulders over my clothes as he intensively shifts his weight to lean into the wall mirror in the back of the elevator. As Sade- no ordinary love and the saxophone backgrounds in the song play in his mind over and over we stand there and stare across from each other with desire and lust. I keep my hands moving slowly allowing him to follow them and see me touch my hips and my thighs, legs, and feet. Between my legs and around my butt cheeks. Bending over in this stance, I turn around in a short slow spin, my butt up in the air, my hands around my ankles. I come up resting with my legs twisted down toward my feet. I look at him through the mirror in front of me, and see sexual tension bent into frustration all over his face and through his expressions. Like a dogs drool, only mentally though. I back up shuffling my feet one at a time until I am against his front middle body evenly lined with my butt. I hint to him, anticipating his hands on my hips and let him go inside my pants. My pink lace panties snap as he pulls back the sides of them and let them hit my skin. He turns me sideways to face my right side against his “middle inner thriving hard on”. He lifts his arm into the air bringing it down and slams his hand onto my butt cheeks. As his hard hand lands he dips his hips into me rubbing himself against me. Over and over he does this, sometimes slow and sometimes fast. Sometimes gentle, then sometimes hard. He finally attempts to pull down my pants all the way, but I stop him. Even in the passion, and heat of disguise he knows he must stop. This moment can still stay innocent should we stop here?  He pulls at my hair, wrapping the strands around his left fingers and pulls me straight backwards into himself while his right fingers grip my right hip. I see his face behind me thats through the mirror in front of me. I brush left, and right gently and slowly, rubbing my butt into his hard fully clothed hard bulge. I squat down, breathing into his middle body and never touching him but with the hair on my head. I stand back up and repeat this cycle several times each time with more thrill and excitement. This danger, will we be caught, oh part time- make believe lover, that will never be mine.

I lean forward, throwing my half way down pants and pink lace matching panties into a hard piece of hidden skin. Letting him slide over the material of my undergarment. He groans and grabs my shoulders, throwing his head back trying not to run out of breath. He moves his hands and tries to grope my hips with me not letting him, he thrusts into me rubbing his hard on STILL all over the material of that thin small silky strip. I still have done nothing to the sorts of touching him, yet he has touched me. He has soaked my panties on the inside and outside, gradually shrinking back to his normal size. He demeans me once more, but this time with my permission. Enjoyment stemming from the fact that we never undressed only partook in foreplay yet got the satisfaction of more. Is there still time to stop, is it still considered innocent? With not a word spoken, I pull up my pants over my butt and button, then zip them. I push the button to go down to the first floor. What a thrill, a one time innocent thrill in “the elevator”.

Tasha Geller-Hollingshead ©copyright 2016

The Therapist

Staring across the room and looking out of the window, I see a man run across the road. He was wearing a black hat that caught my attention. If I look in the right angle I can see as he zips up his black matching coat and run in the black squared shoes he is wearing. The weather, so cold today, and it’s so high up, this building. The sky is sitting even levelled with me today as I embark on another journey with “the therapist”. I wonder if God has a hand in the vision I see in front of me today. Leaping out to grab me and change the proper expression on my face, I am guided to another room. Sometimes I can hear that girl, I can hear her crying in the back ground, around the corner, or is it through the thin four white walls and a not so cushiony carpet that surrounds us again. Less than classy artwork on the walls if I may say so myself, we all are trapped and locked in here. Where is the key? You may ask, why I chose to talk about him today? Out of all the days that come and go in our lives, I choose this particular moment to talk about what most would assume is a less than relevant person in my life right now. Leaving them only to end up being wrong.

Starting with his pointy nose, squinty eyes, and the way he crosses his legs, I would have to say he is the most important person to me that I have to hold dear to my heart. At least, until it’s time for me to give it away to those that are around me 24/7. For now though, my heart is broken and shattered into a tiny little pieces. If I were to sit and try to count all of them, it would be in the millions and the days would drag on while tears fall down my face endlessly. For I am a broken person. I wish I could say that all of my childhood days were happy and I had a happy life. I have never really had a happy life, now that I think back. All of my decisions, those in care of me and their decisions that caused me trauma and pain. The paths I have gone down, had led no where but to sadness. I have many sides to me, some depressing, some mysterious, some happy. I have so much to learn, but will I even give him a chance to help me? What is this thing people call happiness? Is that term really subjective?

(giggle) When you’re talking he will say ok, ok, ok, rather quickly after I speak to cut me off momentarily when I get carried away. He will wait for me to say something rather than asking a question to probe further he will then just say ok. Then a different question, then ok. Then another question, then ok again. Well- followed with a sigh, is the code word and look though, if you pay closely attention you will see and hear it throughout the session. Like a clock that never fails to tick and tock. It is when I know it’s no longer a valid conversation to have, it ends. I know that if I wanted to I could talk about things that could help me, I could get the help I need with him. I am stubborn as a bull my grandmother used to say to me. I see where she was coming from now, even though her opinions could be bought for a dollar a minute, and came true, still, I should have listened to her more. I wish she was here to hear all my complaints and tell me to be grateful for even being alive.

Throughout this long ticking time in session, I reach over to grab his hand, jolting him and startling him. I tell him my deepest dark secrets one at a time. He grins from ear to ear and eerily enough I liked that look. I liked the thrill and excitement that came over his entire face. For I wonder what all goes on inside HIS mind, this trained, well-educated therapist. The one who sits with his chin in his hand and two fingers that point toward his jet black hair. That means the gears are turning, he is thinking very deeply. Years of experience talking to people over and over about the same stuff, I realize why not go ahead and just get it out, something different this time? Why hide who I am anymore, this other side of me? Something that he can actually help me with and I’m not ashamed or embarrassed to know that I have a side that does actually exist in others. The mere fact that I could raise his body out of his chair and cause him to walk around the room tirelessly, showed me that he’s thinking about it. Finally, why did I feel so used, in the end? Was it worth it, opening up this time? Do I still have to question myself and my thoughts on a daily basis? You betcha, but that therapist, that one time. That one day. He understood me and I understood him if only for that ONE minute.

Always, The patient

Tasha Geller-Hollingshead © copyright 2016