red roses for me


arab strap

 Why do I always fall for the wrong men? The ones who will hurt me. Where it isn't a question so much as a matter of time. Perhaps I sense this ability of theirs to take any good thing they might have and throw it away, out of fear maybe. Or self-loathing. Perhaps an impulse toward self-destruction. But no amount of post-analysis will make up for the hurt that creeps onto my shoulders when I walk down the street, until I feel like I have to sit down after every block. The tired feeling that I get after waking up from thirteen hours of sleep, that won't leave me until I go to bed again that night. The feeling of hating myself, for letting him chew up and spit out my self-worth, offering no fight. Wondering why I was so hard to win when I'm so easy to use.

Aidian walked into my life, onto my cd player, and from the first moment I knew that there would never be a happy ending. But I've sunken into my tired treds, and was to weak to fight my way out. He sings about using up and spitting out, feeling the same powerlessness and cheapness that I would feel as the victim. Yet as he sings it, I feel myself wanting him, this poet who stands for the line of errors, as I wanted any of them. There's a comfort in this trap that I created for myself years ago.... So long ago that I can't remember when or how. I wonder if being the user is any different than being the used.

An Arab Strap is a sexual device. It is a bind. Once you're strapped in, you're in for the long haul. You could pull out, but you like it too much, despite the discomfort and impending pain. Maybe it's masochism, does a lover of pain know how to feel pleasure? Is she capable of it? Maybe that's where to go after the fear of love has been dissected.

by megan

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