Why I’ll Never Open Up to You.

You might be met with a wall so high, that you can’t see where the light will come in. But you’ll try to climb, dig or crack a hole through. But it will not happen. I won’t open up to you—and the less I will, the harder you’ll try… that’s the flow of the game: cat and mouse. Or in this case: guest and resident. Resident, because I reside behind that wall – I know where everything is…

… and it’s a mess… heartbreaks here, some hollow wins there and a shitload of “should do’s” in that stack next to the sink I refer to as my complex; everything goes down the drain once in a while, and all the “should do’s” are certainly no exception.

You’re the guest. And chances are, you—and the modest army of women that will follow you—will remain guests, too. Don’t worry. I’ll listen to what you have to say, maybe throw in a back-rub or two, and I’ll certainly pull the dining room chair for you. I’ll also violate your perfection in bed, in the kitchen, in the office, wherever and whenever the moment of fleshy hunger catapults itself from our bodies.

Time will pass… and in my private dustbin of scarlet photo-albums, I’ll remember the moment when I moistened my fingers and soared them deep between your skinny pale legs just to see your eye-lids half-open with a pure white gloss right beneath the long dark eyelashes, the timid spasms when you’re close to orgasmic salvation and the smoke that escapes our worn, dry mouths while the ghost of Jim Morrison sings from my black, cheap speakers.

 The very idea of inviting you in, would be like inviting Virgin Mary into a dirty toilet and ask her to treat it like a chapel.

Even after all our picture-perfect moments, you’ll remain a guest. I’ll take with me the memory of you, and every single woman who’ve raped my innocence and hardened my heart, so the naked recollections will fuel my old age when my dick has retired long before me …

The truth is, I want to turn you into a resident but I can’t subject you to my private mess. The very idea of inviting you in, would be like inviting Virgin Mary into a dirty toilet and ask her to treat it like a chapel. It’s simply not possible—and the beauty of you, in that moment, while we kiss, while we confess our thoughts will be tainted by my mess. And that would simply not be fair to you.

Purity can be an addiction—sex, too… and if I tear down that wall… and if you start waltzing around like an angel in my little hell, I’d follow you for salvation, sacrificing everything till there’s no more to sacrifice. And we both know if I did that, you’d leave and the wall had to be rebuilt, thicker and wide than ever before …