Fuck a Writer (a response)
by Charlotte E. Wilde
Every word you write steals inside me, creeping under covers in my bed, swirling between bubbles in my bath, caressing me secretly while I’m waiting for coffee. Each sentence hums, reverberating in every lull of my reality, every lapse of movement, every hitch in my breath.
Let me be clear.
Every word you write fucks my very essence; folds back my pages, writes in my margins, strips me barer than any romance novel only to leave me trembling, bound like a spine to the headboard of your prose.
Allow me to unpack that for you just a bit. “Fuck” is such an agile term it would be easy to misconstrue (and isn’t that all we ever do, misconstrue fucking?). What I want to say is your punctuation runs wild over my pretense, your structure slides softly off my skin, your absent apostrophe strays onto my stomach, parrying independent clauses over hipbones. Syntax slips down sloping sides as your language seizes me liberally in its arms, holding me like a metaphor. Meandering aimless like tongues through mouths swollen with misspellings, fingers search soliloquies and vocabulary vacillates, resonating over and inside imaginary lines. What I want to say is reading you fucks with me, wrecks me with the weight of a word. What I mean to say is fucking you ruins me; mutes me, deafens me, blinds me, renders me void like the space between your characters.
I’ll try to explain.
It’s the snaking hot jealousy of every girl or tale you’ve ever read, written, or whispered; no mention of those you’ve touched, or held, or loved. I can’t quantify emotions when I think of fingers traipsing haphazardly over someone else’s text, teeth biting into someone else’s story, tongues in someone else’s pulse or mind. Every measurable muse or moment shared, past or penned, yawns wide in my eye as I slip into the space between your chapters. Hidden there, I let the void stroke me with the possibility that there might be something left to salvage, some well not yet sucked dry.
In the lull between paragraphs I give head to my hope that someday the words that swell and pulse and pump from fingers might be meant for me to keep. But really, I’ll swallow stolen secrets just as greedily. Running searching fingers down lines like legs, I press my forehead into every page of loves and lore until they tremble in my hands because fuck, I’ll take what I can get when it comes to the bend and sway of a pretty phrase. Especially yours. Each sentence slips down the back of my throat, mine for the taking, as I milk your words for the remnants of your mind.
So I ask you, really, what is writing if not surrender? And what is surrender if not getting fucked.
(Inspired by this.)