Searching for Tara

Hello and welcome to my new Blog, Searching for Tara.

The adventures of a single 27 year old New York queer woman living, working and dating with complex PTSD

(you can find my previous work at www.pixiedreadful.com)

A mix of Prose and Social observations.

Entry No. 1

I don’t like you

About two woman

It was your essence that entranced me.

You were a shimmering, glistening incandescent pixie. Your hair was red/gold/blue….the colour of a flame.

There was a screening of Rocky Horror at a Halloween pub night and we sat in the worn red velvet chairs gazing at Dr. Frankenfurters lips.  

Oh Oh Oh Oh At the late night double feature picture show

You were with a man, tall dark australian but I didn’t care about him it was all you, laced tightly into your dark velvet corset, cut away so your small hip bones jutted out, white wisp of a tutu skirt.  

Do you ever really love people, or do you just feed on love itself that is like the thick flowing  golden nectar of flowers.

Oh butterfly, flitting from country to country, lover to lover, inhaling the fumes  of adoration like the pot we smoked that time out of the bong you made using an apple and tinfoil, leaving us dazed by your glory before it is time for you to fly away.

My cherry, but you never really were, were you? You belonged to you and you alone. We bonded over American Beauty, Bjork and Die Antwood as we gorged on the sushi you hand rolled yourself.

You were the first girl I asked out on a date, did you know that? Does it matter?  I was high at the time, maybe on the substances at slimelight but more likely on sharing the same air as you. You weren’t over HIM yet. You said no, of course, but we could still kiss.

Is it any wonder I am the way I am around woman? I crave emotion, a bond, connection, depth...Pure physical contact when the other is emotionally withdrawn wounds me too deeply to gain any satisfaction on my part.

Anyway, it doesn’t really matter because I don’t like you.

It was the poetry that drew me. How you kneaded loaves with your words, compared the woman you liked to freshly baked goods, warm and rising, a fresh breath of morning air, flower petals unfurling, glistening with dew drops blossoming on a morning horizon.

The way you pounded on the piano keys like a banshee, screamed and writhed on the floor, like, its ok to release your emotions, let it out let it out.

After years of being repressed, sealing myself in a glass coffin called comfort, perfecting the image the way morticians do to corpses, flash those pearly whites, the diamond ring, the platinum hair, the furs and sweeping new york city skyline views.

Somehow I woke up. I developed brief crushes, infatuations. I never seem to dive into mutual desire. Am I a masochist? I wonder after a night of dreaming of the sunshine girl with the flaxen hair and heart of gold. How she blushes and stammers. Does she know how adorable she is?

I think of the musical episode of Buffy…. “I’ll never tell”

Where is my Tara? She is not the girl of gold, nor  the one of the lilac name. Was I really being that obvious? Was it the champagne? I mentioned her lipstick, was it that?

That awkward hug when getting into the uber. Of course I laughed it off, said it was nothing, just a stupid game, Dia gave me a lapdance pass it on pass it on. Of course I was just kidding, mockingly offended when I was the one you did not want. Of course, just girls being girls. Right?

Don’t mention how I thought of you that christmas eve, how I was meant to be flirting with the guy with the european accent who practices yoga and holds international passports, how you liked him and I realized, fuck it's not him I am thinking about tonight.

“We can both go for him” you said, but I don't see the point in competing for anything I don’t really want.

How can I think of men, cold and hard and easy, when it's the warmth I crave, the softness and perfume and laughter glinting like a babbling brook.

Tread carefully, the voices whisper. Even the clearest rivers have jagged rocks just waiting to grind your bones into dust drifting to the bottom of the sea.

I cannot stop these feelings. But why let it show? After all It’s so much  easier in the end just to say

“I don’t like you.”