What I want

I make it no secret that I will eventually die either by a situation I have put myself in or by my own hand. I do not want anyone to misunderstand this fact. It is not that I dislike life (I do but that is besides the point) its that I dislike living it.

It is not fair that people who want to live die and people who want to die live. Another one of god’s strange ironies I guess like the platypus or opossum. I don’t expect anyone to read the crazed rantings of what rattles around in that empty head of mine. Maybe someone will discover this and realize that it is ok. Its ok to feel like this and not hate yourself for it. Heck if you feel like this you already have enough reason to hate yourself you don’t need any more.

People may ask why I haven’t done it yet. I have often pondered that question when I slide a razor slowly across my skin wishing it were a lovers caress. Watching the red blood tickle its way down my arm trying to tantalize me into making the deeper, feeling more blood sliding down with a soft plink on the tile floor. I listen carefully enraptured by the feeling and the sound of blood slowly draining from my body. The blood caresses my flesh making me shiver and my eyes roll back just for a moment. God it would feel wonderful and decadent. But there are not that many people left in my world and the darkness is closing in.

I wish I could lose myself in the feeling. Let it be the only thing I feel, close off all my other senses to the blade, the blood, and the feel of it. I can feel your warm body beside me, behind me pushing me back against your bare chest. My head lulls against your shoulder surrendering myself to the sensation of the cold metal and your warmth. I can feel each cut, each time the blade slips inside my skin, the ultimate penetration. Not enough to kill be enough to feel it when we fuck later. The sex after is always desperate and frantic (at least for me) I am not sure if I am proving that I am alive or wanting you to plunge the knife deeper so that you can revel in the feel of my life, my blood pour out onto your flesh. Please

The Beginning

I sit watching the sunlight dance off the black sand as the hot breeze rustles the leaves that my prison has grown to protect me. Why the architects protect me I am not sure, why I am not impaled on the cross or pinned to the earth with spikes to be burned and torn apart like Prometheus.

There was a time before here. At least I think there was a time before here. There are vague memories that float through my mind things that when I try to hang onto them they slip like mercury through my fingers. It had to start somewhere right?

Tonight I give myself a headache trying desperately to remember what came before but they whisper to me, their hissing voices seem to overlap making it impossible to distinguish reason from sanity or sanity from hope.

As the day burns bright I lay on the floor of my prison trying to listen to what the voices are saying no longer sure that they are talking to me or each other. I want to ask about the beginning, the start of things, how I came to be locked in this world kept safe even from myself.

I remember the monkey, his laughter and playful nature, how he would make me smile even when the world was falling apart.

I remember the jackal, his quick wit and subtle mind along with his viscous nature, how I felt safe and terrified at the same time, feeling his strength ripple under my finger tips and the sharpness of his teeth as they tore into my flesh.

I remember the horse who was my strength, my loyalty, my heart, and my hope, and my peace all wrapped up in a massively powerful body. A mane that I could wrap my fingers into  to pull him close and hold him against my heart.

I remember the cat the inscrutable one who always had a cheshire grin. The one who taught me what it was to feel fear and enjoy it.

They created the quiet. The precious calm that wrapped itself around me the same way they wrapped themselves around me until there was nothing left of me. Sometimes one at a time and sometimes they would all be around their hands on me and bodies pressed close.

In the end the horses strength failed, the monkey slipped into madness, and the jackal like his counterpart in the Inuit legend ate himself and the cat lost his grin and his drive and ultimately any feeling he had for me, I think his quiet is gone just like mine is.

I miss them more than I miss myself. It is only a matter of time.

So true!
So true!

Addiction

I am not sure how it happened or even if it is possible but I am addicted. Not to any drug known to man or beast but to you.

I am not sure how you did it but I crave your touch and no one elses. In any other circumstance I flinch when someone touches me, my skin crawling where their fingers rested even for the briefest of moments. But not you, never you, always you, I don’t know how you did it or why but everyday the addiction gets stronger with every touch, with ever sigh, with every slide of your knife down my body. Pain wrapped in pleasure wrapped back into pain as you toy with me. Sometimes I think you don’t know how addictive your touch, your quiet, is but the craving is worse than heroin and cocaine combined. Nicotine was easier to quit than you are.

addiction

addiction

What Happens?

What happens when this body no longer draws breath, when the gentle rise and fall signifying life slips away.

What happens when it succumbs to the slow dark decay that began all those years ago,

Will it rise from the dead becoming an even more unnatural abomination than it already is,

Or will it remain inert, interred in the cold dark earth to have even the most tender places pulled apart and eaten only to become part of the earth again.

What happens when this heart no longer beats, will it be as cold in the grave as it is inside this body.

What happens when lungs and heart fill with earth as the dying breath is not one taken in a hospital or a home but already in a grave. No coffin just a shallow hole as dark and beautiful as the one I am encased in while I live maybe even more so. Will I hear the shovel tamp the earth down so that it is smooth and perfect once again.

Will its vibrations echo through my body as it struggles against me with its horrible, predictable, immutable will to live. What will the soil taste like,

Or

Will you kill me first in the most loving way. Wrap your body around mine and slowly overpower that will to live. You’re strong enough and I am weak enough or maybe it is that I am strong enough and you are weak enough…

Not mine

 

 

Not a Good Day

It is no secret that I work at night. It is also no secret that I am a dark person. Today is one of the days I remember just how crazy I am. It is a panicky shaky overwhelmed sort of crazy that overflows and washes over the inside of my body. It is not the pleasant warm rain that just makes you want to stand in it and enjoy the feeling. It is a if my blood has turned to acid eating its way through my body making the blood vessels seep as it burns through them searching for something leaving tattered blistered remains behind.

The uneasiness consumes me forcing me to want to hide inside something even if it is a building as twisted as I am. I am uncomfortable in my own skin as if it is a million insects attempting to crawl off my body on its own. The acid in my veins encourages it and if I looked in the mirror I doubt that the skin on my face would remain there. It would melt away slipping down and dropping away with wet clops only to scuttle away going to hide in the black spires of the world inside my mind. My face would be left with exposed muscles and bone without expression and without a sign of the pain wracking my already too fragile body and mind.

Darkness ripples around me like a poisonous cloud forcing its way into my lungs making it feel as if I am breathing through sand. Shards of the ever present colored glass slicing through poking grotesquely through the spaces between my ribs. Scarred bits of me slip open weeping tears of blood that my eyes cannot. The misshapen mouths split from skin open wetly as if they are shrieking with a pain of their own as they choke on my blood. As I watch them gape open I expect to see eyes peeking at me through the smaller ones that rest above the widest of the splits. Staring at me accusing me through the truth of the mirror.

I don’t know what they would say. I want to but I cannot understand it through their choking gurgles as blood stumbles out of them increasing in both amount and speed. I strain my ears to understand because just maybe they have something valuable to say.

openwoundYes, Mine

 

Subtle Kind of Crazy

Some days I am reminded that I am still crazy. Not the subtle kind of crazy that most people are but the screaming kind of crazy that most people run away from or are locked up for. In a way I am locked up. I allowed myself to be put into a straight jacket a long time ago and decided what the hell straight jackets can be fun when applied correctly. Then again most things can be fun when applied correctly.

The soft whisper of canvas knowing that you can’t move even if you tried. There is something inherently lovely about that in the right circumstance. Unfortunately this is not the right circumstance.

I am tempted to take a look to glance up into that slick blackness of his eyes and taste the darkness there. Wondering if the red on his lips is from the kisses he has recently given another or from running his tongue over the open wounds that the glass has left in my skin as I clawed my away out. I don’t want to see what is in his eyes though. Whether they are the deep blue that I love or the swirling black I know is hidden there, that is reserved only for me. I can lose myself in either one only one is more frightening than the other. The swirling memorizing black fascinates and hypnotizes me to the point of compliance, complacence. The danger in them is not even a thought.

His hand moves up to brush against my skin and I realize that I don’t know if it is the soft caress of his fingertips or if the razor is just to sharp to feel at first as it cuts deep into my flesh. I don’t know because I haven’t looked into his eyes. Nor do I want to. I realize now something that I should have known all along. I want to know which it is. I don’t care if it is a lover’s caress or if I am going to feel warm liquid slide down my neck soaking my chest. I almost risk a glance down wondering if the warm that I feel around my heart is emotion or my life draining from me.

blackeyeThis one is mine – Not my eye but my picture.

Has to be said

I openly welcome any comments and often retrieve some of them from spam because that is where some legit comments end up. It may take a few days but I also approve all comments except for those that are obviously spam. I found this one under spam which it probably is from someone named Carpet. Tell me what is wrong with this comment

“of course like your website however you need to take a look at the spelling on quite a few of your posts. A number of them are rife with spelling issues and I find it very troublesome to inform the truth however I�ll definitely come back again.”

Providing for abbreviation I ignored the beginning of it. Now I need to take a look at my spelling on quite a few of my posts… umm aside from the Latin which comes up spelled wrong because oh well let’s see IT ISN’T IN ENGLISH there is nothing spelled wrong. I am just neurotic enough to check. Can someone how to inform the truth? I definitely would like to speak with the Truth just because it might be fun but to inform him of something might be a bit insulting. Now I understand coming back again there are many blogs I follow spelled wrong or not but I do know the html for an ‘.

For my readers I am sorry for this rant but the teacher in me twitches when someone says I spelled something wrong. I worked very hard to learn both English spelling and grammar (no it is not my first language) and it annoys me to no end to have someone say my posts are rife with spelling errors by someone who obviously needs a lesson in grammar, html, and apparently spelling. Hey even the term schizophrenic architects is spelled right.

Sorry for the rant. Oh and if this was spam it wasn’t very good spam considering I live in America and am not about to have my carpets in England cleaned… now cleaned by an Englishman… preferably naked… umm well yeah I am not even going to continue with that thought, way too frustrated.

One Free Murder

Not that any of them really are but this particular one is not for the kiddies. If you are under 18 please find something more suited towards your needs to read. Parental discretion definitely advised. If your child is reading this unattended by a parent then I cannot be held responsible. You should watch what your children read online. 

I really think that everyone should be allowed one free murder in their lifetime. Just one where they will not take you to jail or put you on trial for it. Just one per person. This brings to light all sorts of things like who would you take. Would you wait until you had good reason or do it for pleasure. Would it be someone you hate or someone you love? 

Would people set up match making services like the dating sites that are so popular? Matching those who want to kill and ones who want to be dead. Could you trade murders so if you are the one wanting to be killed can your killer have yours and therefore have two.

Could you auction that murder that you have? Sell it to the highest bidder so that they have more. Would you?

Would you take your lover? Wrapping him in silken warmth clamping around his cock. Rocking, fucking him harder and faster until he is just about to cum and then tighten your hands around his neck until he is coming and dying at the same time watching his life slip from him even as his cum splashes inside you. Would you let him do it to you?

Or would you do it with a blade. Blind folded with his wrists restrained and teased with the cold metal making small cuts as you stroke him with your hand, sliding your mouth around the tip as tiny trickle of blood seeps from the cut just above his hip, the spot that you love the most. Sliding your tongue around the head of his cock until you know pleasure and pain have become one only to take all of him into your mouth and down your throat all at once. Would you run your hands through the cuts tracing them carefully listening to all of the lovely sounds he makes. The sharp intake of breath when you touch a tender place or the soft cries torn from him as his cock reaches your throat again, pushing past it and groaning when he feels your throat tighten around the head. Would you slip the knife into his heart then? Or maybe just a tiny cut to the femoral artery, not noticeable until he gets light headed and your mouth and hands are slick with the warmth of his blood.

What would it be like to that warmth surround you the coppery taste mixing with the bitter sweet taste of his cum?

Would you do this to her? Only instead push your cock down her throat until she can’t breath. Feel it clench and try to swallow as she is slowly suffocated her struggles making your pleasure sweeter.  Would you watch her eyes go wide when she realizes that you are exercising your right to one free killing on her. Would it make you cringe or hard?

Would you do it fast or slowly taking time to prolong the pleasure because you only get just one unless it is a trade? Would you collect them like baseball cards hoarding them until the time is perfect.

It could be your worst enemy or you could take your frustrations out on your boss, ex, father, teacher, mother, that girl in the 10 items or less line with a pack of kids and a cart full of groceries.

Would it be quiet or loud? Would you want to enjoy each moment reveling in the sensations of power and control?

Killperson

A Day of Unknown Origin

Since everyone I know seems to be locked into a progression of holidays it seems only appropriate that I point out the worst fact of all about this particular holiday. There are several and most do not fit with the annoyingly happy gift giving sappy cherub loving crap. The pagans and you have to love the pagans for this picked a day in the middle of February to celebrate fertility. The Romans not wanting to be out done had a woman lottery where they would essentially raffle off young women to spend a year with the participating men – most of the time this year ended in marriage (gee wonder why that is) This lottery took place only after proper sacrifices of goats, dogs, and other livestock and whipping the women with the skins…. yeah romantic.

This brings us to the Catholics, the Roman’s who sacrificed not one but several people named Valentine or Valentinus and the Catholics were set on making them martyrs. Nothing like celebrating death with love. Perhaps they did this just because it has always been frowned upon to celebrate love with death.

When asked my simple response is that I don’t celebrate holidays. Not due to religion I am Catholic which is not only a church of contradictions, riches, and holidays.

There are however a few things that they symbols of valentine’s day make me think of.

Cupid – cherubim servants of god who held the fiery sword barring the doors to Eden. Light bringer was a cherubim. He is also known by quite a few other names such as morning star and if you don’t know who that is study your lore.

Hearts – Now there’s a better image. Hearts bring to mind blood, pounds, skipping a beat, and how you could slip a small knife through the muscle between the ribs because it is only two inches to touch someone’s heart. Although this is probably not the type of touch the valentine’s day card writers mean. How slick blood is and how it changes colour as it leaves the body going from crimson to dull red.

Harlequin – Don’t ask why there is this association. For some reason valentine’s day always brings up the image of the character Harley Quin.

Aphrodisiac poisoned cupcakes and chocolates. It would be interesting to do and even more interesting to read the headlines in the newspaper or watch reporters try and describe the tragedy of hundreds literally fucking themselves to death. Oh come on you can’t say that you haven’t thought of it. If they poison Halloween candy why not…

I don't know the artist but love the picture.
I don’t know the artist but love the picture.

It just reminds me of valentine’s day.

Jagged

And now they can never get the timing just right. When they join together it forms a grotesque shape, all edges too sharp and dips and valleys too soft. There no sound other that a quiet gasping, because someone has always run out of air. They are so twisted and broken that they can’t even look each other in the eyes, and yet they can’t let go (don’t want to).

So every night they twist a little farther into each other. They break their souls so that the jagged pieces cut each other, the metaphor becoming so real sometimes that they will wake up with their bodies still tangled together, now slick with blood, and their mouths tasting like copper. And it’s fucking perfect.

undead but still alive

andrea-miltnerova-fractured