Roses, Thorns, and the Dark

I don’t remember coming here inside myself, wait, actually I do remember. I don’t want to remember but I do and I know why. I don’t worry about the strangeness of the thoughts in my head as I run my hand over the black bars of my cage. I belong here and in some ways it is the only place that I belong. My heart still flutters painfully in my chest although I distinctly remember ripping it out a time or two, Or was it ripped from me. I shake my head my shaggy never perfect hair falls around my shoulders in confusion as I remember the crackling pop of ribs as a hand stretches them apart to dig at the soft tissue underneath. It is a wonder I still draw breath. The strange feeling of my lung being pushed aside so that you could get to the most vital part of me. Your hands are warm as they grasp it, somehow I didn’t expect them to be warm. The tugging sensation makes me shiver as its connections are severed and you begin to withdraw. The sliding sensation is all pleasure and pain wrapped up like a Christmas gift, tied with a particularly visceral bow.

cry

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┬áheroin and cocaine combined. Nicotine was easier to quit than you are.

addiction

addiction