Tags: you_don_t_want_to_know

  • dove95


You don’t want to know.

I’ve sat at this blank screen for the last 30 minutes trying to figure out what “you don’t want to know.” I’ve written some stuff, but I thought it wasn’t good enough to post. Everyone is so creative and they’ve taken the words right out of my mouth. So, in simple terms, I ask:

How many people have you slept with? Any of the same sex? More than one at the same time? How many different partners have you had in the course of a weekend? Where is the strangest place you’ve had sex? What was the best sexperience? Who has the best cock or pussy you know? Have you ever had sex while intoxicated or stoned? Would you ever cheat on your SO if you had permission? What is your ultimate fantasy?

When is the last time you changed your underwear? Took a shower? Have you ever burped or farted in public? Picked your nose? Eaten it? Have you peed in public or on the side of the street? What is the most humilating thing to happen to you? Happen in front of you?

What is your biggest regret? What do you want to do with your life? Who is your true love? Who is your best friend? What is your greatest accomplishment? What is the biggest sacrifice you’ve done or would do for someone you care about? What one thing do you want to do before you die? How do you want to die? Do you want to be buried or cremated? What do you hope people say about you after you’ve died?

I can feel your stare, “You don’t want to know.”

But I do. Not only cuz I’m a crazy, nosy fucker, but because I believe that once you know the answers, you’ll know more about yourself and then, I’ll know more about you and maybe the world isn’t as full of strangers.

x-posted in dove95

(no subject)

you don't want to know.
"he loves me.
he bought me dinner;
we spent the night at his house
            making love."

her voice is full of light,
delicate spring flowers.

my eyes fall to the floor
like birds with broken wings.

when i ask how things are,
i pray for her to snap,
"you don't want
            to know."

instead, she whispers,
numbering the evening with magic stars,

and i cast my ears away,
listening as rain tumbles to meet the snow.

You don't want to know.

The dust has accumulated over the years, it's thickness surpassing that of the width of a notebook. Traces of fingerprints disrupt its smooth layer. The desk is perhaps the most neglected of the furniture in the small house, it's wood, once throbbing with an elegant Victorian appearance, has rotted and been eaten away. The photograph remains on the desk, destroyed by the rain which escapes the broken security of the roof. The letters beside the photo are crumpled and discolored, but remarkably legible, their words enough to haunt the fallen home.

The painting looms over the desk, spreading a darkness across the walls. It appears to be a room from the house, back when it flourished with life. A chair sits in the center, lamplight casting a shadow over its form. Upon its seat, a blue pen lays.

Written across the painting, in a deep crimson ink, are five words.

"You don't want to know."

(no subject)

"You don't want to know," he said as I inquired about a lyric he posted some place. He doesn't tell me his birthday until I fight with him. Nobody asks why I got a new datebook, and nobody rightly cares. But, I care! It is important to me! Shouldn't people who care about me, care about what is important to me? I thought so. Nobody asks about the weather, anymore. We think we're above it.
    If I wasn't so defined by my lack of definition, I'd know what I want. I think as I get older I lose my sense of self, because "we were all so sure who we were then." Now, all we are is old. Old? Old at 14, 18, and 21 (inside joke for girls who like the Kennedy's.) I am defined by my dyed red hair, my ghostly skin tone, and my redred lips. But, these things are nothing. I wish someone would notice something about who I am. Nobody reads this, nobody drinks this, nobody likes this mess! No, I'm not a mess. In fact, I'm perfectly normal. The only way I can break the conformity, for myself, is to want, and be normal. How ironic!