This is one of those nights where every fiber in my body is vibrating and I can think of nothing more fun than sinking to my knees in front of the nearest stranger. Filthy bathrooms in worn out clubs that look almost magical at night but sad and tired during the day. This is the time that I personify dangerous behaviors and need to take my energy, anger, and hatred out doing something fun and yes sucking a stranger off in a random bathroom is fun. It’s power and don’t let anyone ever tell you it isn’t. The way girl or guy looks at you when they know you are in control and that you are making them feel like indescribable incandescent pleasure in such a objectionable place.
There are some things that cannot be replaced by a safe, sane, alternative.
I am sorry to everyone who follows this blog. I have not posted in a while mostly because I haven’t written anything in a while. It’s funny when life gets in the way of well… life. It is not always easy to write, nor is it always good to. The changes in me caught me by surprise and it took some time to adjust. For those who know me I am still pretty much two steps from self destruction and suicide the crazy has just been calmer the last few days.
The good news is that in the process of adjusting I met someone very close to what and who I am.
The bad news is that in the process of adjusting I met someone very close to what and who I am.
Obviously I haven’t decided whether or not this is a good thing or a bad thing. I think I can only wait and see what happens. It is strange and kind of wonderful to understand someone and I am still not sure that this whole thing is wise.
Hopefully I will be able to pick back up writing, I just can’t seem to find the latch inside my head that lets all of the crazy wander out and onto the page. If anyone has any ideas on how to do this I am up for just about anything.
For those who need it I give you an obscenely happy goat.
I expect sand as my eyes slide open and am surprised when the storm from the night before has not covered me. I wonder if that is how I got buried in the first place oh so long ago. Slowly I sit up and contemplate the bars of my prison, they were alive and moving only yesterday. Dead and cold is somewhat better than the chitinous clicking and scraping of large insects moving around. I run my hand over them feeling the spines and tiny hairs scratch against my skin. Hair embeds itself deep into my flesh instantly causing it to itch underneath my calloused palm. The hair seems to burrow deep twisting and turning worming its way into the muscle where scratching the skin will bring no relief from the writhing. Only an torturous insatiable itch.
Shuddering I try not to think about the endless hours of torture ahead while I dig at my own flesh, tearing it to make a feeling stop, a feeling that might only be a phantom but still feels just as real. I know that later I will scratch it until it bleeds onto the harsh white sand beneath me. In a way I miss the pain of real life but not enough to live it.
Trying to ignore the squirming in my hand I reach up to brush the hair out of my face only then realizing the world looks different. What I first thought was sand sticking to my skin is smooth instead of the grainy rush I came to expect from the tiny shards of glass that make up the sand in this place. It takes me a minute to notice that the skin is too smooth, to cool against my fingertips. My hands slide forward chasing my cheekbones they are there but too smooth too cool and too unmoving. My fingertips caress the smooth surface covering my cheeks tracing slowly back to my ears which amazingly are free of the enclosure. The pads of my fingers brush backward through my hair almost panicking at the lack of buckles or straps.
My heart pounds in my chest as I trace the lines at the edge of my hair. The cool metal blends with my flesh curling into it. The itch is momentarily forgotten as I realize that this might be folded into my skull wrapped up in with flesh and bone. It is only now that I feel the weight of it. My fingers skate back across the cool metal marveling that it is not being warmed by my flesh and body heat only to realize that I have no heat of my own anymore. I have been here too long and it seems that this place is turning me into it. I lean back hard wondering if the mask is metal at all. Maybe it is like the bars of the cage, not metal but alive and slowly taking over.
I offer to let you use me in any way that you want – no request is too strange or unusual. I would love for you to do to me what pops into that wonderfully wicked brain of yours.
Ever wonder why… every wonder what I want in return. As it turns out not a whole lot. I just want to tie you down and find out what makes you scream in pleasure… and if I can’t have that pain… but what I truly want is to find where the two meet for you, where they become one inside of you. I want to shatter you into millions of kaleidoscope pieces where the jagged pieces of you slice into my flesh embedding themselves into my flesh so that I can carry a piece of you with me all the time. I want to crack your chest open and crawl inside to curl around your heart, so I can listen to your heart beat from the inside and feel its deadly rhythm beating all around me.
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
They are at it again… building things just to tear them down. Twisted spirals into oblivion. Wasteland as far as the eye can see. If I had a soapbox I think I would stand on it just to get a look around, maybe pick some of the glass out of my skin. Much of it has healed over. The glass is still under there writhing against muscle and bone.
It is days like today that I wish I had stayed in the pit built for just me. Yes the glass will shred the skin and warmth will trickle down my back in an almost comforting way. Yes I know that it is blood just as I know when I look up and out there will be only oil slicked darkness above and a chasm that I have never found the end of below. Sometimes I wonder how deep it is down there, how dark, and how comforting that darkness will be once I settle down into it impaled on spikes meant to do the damage that will leave me pinned and writhing but not dead. There are hundreds of places they can slide right through and not kill me.
I wonder what the blood would look like as it slipped down the spikes soaking the dirt floor. Or maybe the floor is shards of glass too… in which case the blood on it would shine in the iridescent light. At times I wonder if those are the patterns that the architects follow when they build or if it is just something that they pick out of my dreams.
You ever have one of those days where you knew you should have swallowed the entire bottle of sleeping pills the night before. Seriously wake up wondering why your life has suddenly been rewritten by a mind more insane than yours. I looked at myself in the mirror this morning and thought well… at least I know what to expect…
This however is not the case. Of course not because that isn’t how life works or at least not this life.
Here’s a personal ad for you
Well built single white female seeks knight in shining armor or homicidal maniac. Note if you are the latter please do it quickly and skip the monologue. You won’t get caught, you don’t even have to dispose of the body. If you are the former just rescue me, the armor doesn’t even need to be all that shiny.
Ok so single white female seeks knight in slightly tarnished armor that knows a homicidal maniac who is willing to kill her after said knight breaks her into itty bitty pieces…
Ok so single white female seeks knight armor optional and homicidal maniac for a threesome – what happens from there is of little concern as long as the ending is final and they agree to dispose of the body in a shallow grave where it will be found by unsuspecting tourists preferably with small children who will be forever scarred or the highlight on show and tell day.