Posted on by Killingdanse

Sometimes at Night

It sounds strange but the Russian roulette of  my emotions for you get the better of me. It’s funny that I need physical sensation to remember the act of dying. I sit trying to put it into words but there are none really. None that matter at least. The cold metal barrel and the soft beckoning taste of gunpowder always astound me. It isn’t like anything I have felt before. It is good to remember how to feel at least. It’s like trying to catch a dream.

I know I can do it even if this doesn’t make much sense. I remember what it was like but I there is a block there when I get to how it is supposed to feel. The familiar ache is gone but it has left something infinitely more horrible behind. Everything is so much quieter now so much more peaceful which makes it all the more devastating. I would do anything to get me back. Anything to break this silence.

 

How do you say to people that something is wrong… no I mean really really wrong like horribly deadly carving yourself up into little itty bitty pieces wrong?

And here for those of you who like them are nifty pictures.

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Posted on by Killingdanse

Memory in a Dream

Tonight is one of those nights where the nightmares are real and they just won’t stop. Where if I could bring myself to touch someone I might just want that contact. Not even the person I am currently staying with sees that I flinch away when they get too close, I haven’t looked in a mirror for years, and I don’t seem to sleep anymore. I know after seven days my fingernails will get brittle, my skin and hair will dull, and my body will begin to break down. I look at this clinically because I can no longer feel anything – the well meaning ones took care of that.

I realize in a detached way that there is something like broken glass inside me, churning around as I move. I am almost afraid that when I cough beautiful red will stain my lips and I will know that the glass is real and not something I imagined. It will bubble up and spill over looking for all the world like an over filled glass. Pouring down in the restless tide desperate to overtake ground. Just as real as the red that pours out of a thousand tiny cuts so carefully hidden from the world. Its stunning in its own way and there are people who can see that for the tragically beautiful sight it is.  The same way someone looks after everything else is done and the only thing left that they can do is cry because of its loss. There is purity in that sight unlike anything that people normally feel or witness. Just as there is purity in inflicting and receiving pain.

No one notices that the nightmares leave me screaming or that my heart beats too hard against the razor shoved carelessly and deep within it. I am surprised no one hears me break, slowly, so slowly over time.

I am waiting for the hallucinations to start. A nifty side effect that even the most hardcore drug addict would envy if they weren’t so real and so inescapable. Then they will come with their solutions, their quaint notions, and their tired cliches. Eventually they will say every thing will be alright except that it never is because they can’t see what I see. They don’t know what I know.

The blackouts have already started… some long purged defense mechanism gone haywire. Making me forget entire blocks of time because it can’t protect me from itself so it tries to protect me from everything else, even the things I don’t need protection from. Now I can’t even escape into my own world, I can just watch from afar wondering what the architects have planned.

It won’t let me rest. The cycle has gone one long enough for me to be wary of closing my eyes wondering what I will see when I do. I see it but I can’t feel it anymore and I can’t decide which is worse.

twisted

Posted on by Killingdanse · 2 Comments

Lost

They took something from me something important and although I can remember it I can’t seem to mourn its loss and I need to. The sadness is gone, the guilt, the pain all gone. Unfortunately everything else is too. I know what they meant to take but instead they took it all, everything that makes me who I am, what I am. I look out from a shell not loving, hating, crying, or screaming because I can’t. It is an eerie silence inside my head now.

They said it would only hurt a little bit but this lost emptiness is worse than pain, so much worse. They didn’t know that this would drive me crazy. At least the with the pain I had something to hang onto. Now there is just nothing. People around me watch only now realizing that what I am doing is trying to feel something, anything. My actions get more and more desperate, going farther, pushing harder, just to feel. Now even I wonder how far I will go just to feel.

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Posted on by Killingdanse · 1 Comment

There is Nothing Again

In the past weeks I have tried to write honestly I have. Unfortunately everything seems to be coming out just wrong. It is like I can no longer use writing to articulate what is in my head and even the world inside me seems bleaker than normal. I can still see it, it is still there but I no longer live there. I am no longer a part of my own world. It is like looking through glass frosted over by wicked cold letting me see but not feel anything but a cold that not even my world contained. Anyone who is wondering about that world is welcome to read, more than a few posts contain glimpses of that world.

It’s like having a limb severed, being able to see it, but not feel it, not touch it. Not be a part of it. One wouldn’t expect it but it is quite painful actually. To not be in touch with something that has tortured me so beautifully, leaving me twisted and broken. It is much like not being able to touch the one that can twist you into a wonderfully broken thing and make your mind fly apart with the sheer ecstasy of it. Yeah you know who I mean. Only this is worse. That person is just a person, outside and at times replaceable. This is a part of me.

“Will it let me back in,” is the only question that I can ask because it is no longer my choice. They think that banishing the darkness with pharmaceuticals is the only way I will be free. What I don’t tell them is I like the darkness, enjoy it, it makes me whole, without it I am a ghost locked inside myself. I can’t feel, I can’t write, I can’t laugh, love, or breath. Stealing a part of me is something only a lover should do.

broken_wings

Posted on by Killingdanse · 8 Comments

Deviant Sexual Behavior

Yes this is a redlined post. Not for kiddies in more ways than one. It is important to remember that there is an age of consent and anything breaking that age can be very very very harmful. That being said all activities should be safe, sane, consensual, and not harmful to you or others.

Most people who know me, have read my writing, or seen any of my lectures understand that I am open about enjoying all forms of sex, adult entertainment, and all things that feel wonderful. My motto has always been if it feels good then enjoy it while you can. There is too much in this life that is damaging or hurtful to not take advantage of something that feels wonderful.

Why am I stating this again when everyone knows my stand on all things pleasurable?

Simply because there are far too many people who judge and maybe after reading this they might be a bit less likely to condemn.

I had a conversation with some friends not long ago that turned from a lighthearted discussion about blow jobs to something much darker. Dark is nothing new to me and depending on my mood I might like very very dark things done to my body and doing very very dark things in return. There were several of us talking from a variety of different backgrounds with a variety of different ideals. We had both ends of the spectrum. One of the subjects was a time honored taboo in our culture and to respect my friends I won’t get detailed. The fact was they engaged but were unsettled by what they were doing. They were wracked by guilt.

It turned out that although they felt very strong feelings of love, desire, and attraction they were hurt by the fact that the feelings existed. How many of us can control what we feel for another person? Can we simply turn off attraction, sexual desire, love?

If you ask any of my ex-boyfriends, girlfriends, or even friends they will certainly tell you that I have one hell of a time with it, hence mistakes I have made by getting back together with them. After the statement was made one person left and another I asked to leave. No matter what I can’t deal with someone who judges a person without knowing the whole story. The two that left, left because sometimes society cannot tolerate a new concept even if it doesn’t harm anyone.

Society judges that harshly.

My point is this…

If two people want to engage in something that does not harm anyone else, doesn’t harm them, and they enjoy it what is the problem? I don’t see one. What two people do in their bedroom is really seriously none of my or anyone elses business. I might not choose it for me but then again I am not in their circumstance. If I were perhaps I would.

If you look at the taboo subjects we have when it comes to sex which ones should truly be immoral or illegal. Which ones really do harm? In the case of my friends and me on occasion it is not the act that hurts it is society’s reaction to the act. There are things about me that I keep private because people look at me different when they find out. Is it just me that thinks society shouldn’t have any say in what I do privately?

If you enjoy something then enjoy it. It can be very hard when society frowns on what you are doing but you do far more damage to yourself because of it when you deny something that you enjoy. The fact that something deviant is enjoyable doesn’t hurt you, caring how people judge you will. The guilt is what destroys you not the act. Guilt is a very very powerful construct but it is a construct. It is very rarely real. I know I feel guilty over things that are not my fault all of the time.

Feeling guilty about something that hurt someone else is a good thing. Feeling guilty about something that you enjoy that doesn’t hurt anyone or feeling guilty about feeling a certain way is useless. It is a waste of energy and emotion. Feeling guilty because society, the church, or other people tell you to is just plain silly. There is nothing about sexual desire that is safe, sane, consensual, and doesn’t hurt anyone else to feel guilty about.

As long as the desire, activity, or feeling doesn’t hurt you, hurt others, and you enjoy it then why not enjoy it without worrying about what other people think. You shouldn’t feel guilty about something that is natural for you just because someone else says you should feel guilty. Guilt can kill.

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Posted on by Killingdanse · 2 Comments

The Clowns are chewing away in the most painfully unpleasant fashion

A hate has been rising up in me. It started as a slow burn that only twinged a little bit. You know the feeling when you see, do, or have done to you something that is only slightly unjust. It can be pried out of you with a kind word or happy thought. If it is not excised it continues to grow into a burning, a torturous heat with hard edge. It can still be cut from your heart by pure unadulterated lust and the wonderfully rough sex that comes with it. The kind of physical contact that leaves you sore and aching in the morning because you both have taken the hate out on each other and are better for it. This is the kind of fucking that most people only engage in once or twice and think that it is adventurous. The kind where the participants have no idea how close they’ve come to tearing each other apart.

It wandered into the territory of a bright flame as it grew. The hard edge to it becoming a bludgeon working further into my soul. Twisting into it like something wrong and painful. Although much harder to do because the edges of the heart are torn and bruised it can still be torn from the body, but only by using another as you are used in a visceral meeting of the two sexes. The kind of fucking that not many know and others think they’ve gone insane to engage in. The kind where you rip into the other person taking pain and pleasure instead of just giving it.

Then it turned to a roaring fire as it continued to grow. The edge to it is no longer hard but sharp as it shreds the heart piercing the soul before pulling out again only to ram back in. The only way to extinguish it is bloody and painful and kept quiet in the dark.

Finally the flames of the fire turned dark as it consumed me until it wasn’t a fire at all anymore just a burning hatred that echoes up from my eviscerated soul. A wealth of it pours off of me causing even the most oblivious of people to shy away. A darkness so deep and black that to rip it from me would tear apart what little is left. So entwined in what is me it would pull out my very soul. Still it burns deep inside leaving bladed teeth marks wherever it touches.

creepy-clown-monster-face

Posted on by Killingdanse

Not Me

I have not been myself lately or rather I have been too much myself lately locked inside my own little world begging for escape. I look around at the people with me who don’t know me at all and slip back into an alternate reality that is more real to me than anything I can touch or hold but is infinitely more twisted that anything thought up on this plane.

In my world if something can think to do it, it has been done in technicolor brilliance that can only be accomplished in the mind. Things so twisted that they can only exist inside someone and they can only feast on the light and love in your soul. And feast they do. I am losing it.

I look at others, listen to them, and realize that no one has it worse or better than me because their mind might be doing it to them too. If I can hide it away from everyone but my readers they can hide it from me. Which sparks the thought, as I look at each person in turn, what horrible things is their mind doing to me as we talk. Are they similar things to what my mind is doing to them. Would they cringe away from me in horror if I told them or would they just smile at me knowingly.

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Is that the same hunger or darkness I see behind their eyes? Is it the same blackness that is behind your eyes? I don’t know why you suddenly shift away only that you do. My mind instantly goes to the questions is the darkness showing, radiating off me like some twisted negative lighthouse.  Or is it the blankness, the utter soulless look that is in my eyes. Does it make you think “she’s checked out?” Do you even notice? No one else does…

th (2)

Posted on by Killingdanse · 3 Comments

Breaking

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.

twisted