“… how he lost his life [because of nice] …”

Morgan writes from the heart, but via the mind.  It’s a sometimes quite overwhelming combination.

Today, I read about nice: how hard being nice becomes.  Not the being nice itself, but what one’s life becomes through being so.

I’d like to add my own thoughts to this idea.


“…[because of nice] …”

So I realise, without wishing to rewrite our

history, we got married out of

nice not passion.  Or maybe passion was

there, but only on one said:

one said of one

side,

aside-

d with pairs that assaile-

d my thoughts with other thoughts

you’d never con-

template – wizard-

like in any condition:

the ears I would kiss and nibble and then

you’d push me away because the

feeling dismayed you, and so I requested

as always the touch I was missing from you and,

d-

esultory like, you ending up submitting,

and my whole may-

be lives of abus-

ing you otherwise, where I was the abuser, but the game we

did play was according to rules you

did say and proclaim, without ever

saying no nor ever

saying yes, and so always I had to

guess what you wante-

d: and now I do realise

you wanted nothing of me in the sense

of sexuality – I was just a brother, a cipher of

sexual being, a man who was nothing

but revulsio-

n in those pairs:

the ears I so loved to caress with my tongue,

and the fears this did generate

somewhere inside you;

and the eyes I once could look into

so deeply and long without you remarkin-

g: “What’s wrong?”

 

 

And then the hands I would hold, in the hope of

something more;

and the thighs I would attempt to scale

only for rejection to be my

ultimate

falling failing, and

pale – ever so

pale – redress;

and the dresses and layers I would attempt to unpick

only for your scowling push-

aways to send me back to the end of the

queue, to the corner of shame,

to the place of of waxing and considerable wane;

and the arms and the fingers I so longed

to stroke;

and the breasts I never got to touch, and even

when I did, I struggled gently to resist my

desire, and just do what you let

me, which was

ever so little,

and quench all the fire from all of my

being, and only touch you so-

so forever –

and you know how that

feels?  I’m bereft of all understanding; bereft

of all lust – and for me it’s been like this for

decades of un

marriage: a wagon, a carriage,

a baggage of pain; a farce on the inside,

a force only on the out; a lie I would love not to

live any more – and so

finally yous kno-

w: these lives of love and affection I married you for

have utterly become a nightbed of

lies.

 

So is it the same for you?

Am I a liar …

… too?

 

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