Wound up

I love sex. 

Not because of the act

Or the pleasure

Or the outcome. 

But of the passion

And feeling alive. 

So much of life is feeling nothing. 

I do not even feel loneliness

In that I don't long for the company of others,

Just secluded and empty. 

And it has become like a black hole 

Everything that comes near it is pulled in to it. 

It feels dark and endless

As if I'm suspended in space

And anything I say is sucked into a void.

And I've ceased to exist. 

Sex makes me feel

Whether I want to or not

In control and powerful 

for one small moment in time. 

I feel good at something 

Desirable

I feel like a human being

And not simply a thing. 

I feel as if I'm a clockwork toy 

Sitting on a shelf

Waiting to be wound up

So that I might live again.