Something needs to give... whether it be my will or the relentless assault on these cursed emotions. I'm broken... the chewed toy buried in the backyard. Slowly digested by time and these acidic thoughts... the poisonous neglect of those claiming to care. I am alone. It's nothing new... in fact, I should have been hardened to this truth long ago. Yet, I believe those sweet words when uttered in my leprous ears... all the while knowing those eyes have become callous and filled with deceit. The venomous beauty... my sweetest torment. It only serves to fuel the already overwhelming hatred I feel for this pathetic mass called a man... I am neither a man, nor the moppet. I am the willing bitch... a whore to desired affections and the centerpiece of insecurity. I hate you... I fucking hate myself. I spend my time rocking in the womb, weeping for the things forgotten and running from those remembered... strangulation and humiliation, the comforts of this diseased edifice. I still yearn for those possibilities at night as I clutch my pillow... the echoing words of what was shared and desired. Though I now see the words for what they are, slivered glass embedded in a cancerous gullet... my heart aches for the veil to once again shroud the deception. How I long for it...fuck! The irony is thick, for now I take on the role of the fattened calf... to gurgle and spit, over and over as you thrust and penetrate my throat with your rusted, forked tongue. The daily ritual, of you, the unsatiated sadist... my captor and false prophet. Filed in line, behind the others... to claim the place as my muse and infection. Seeping through my skin and bubbling my blood black... the deepest cut upon my soul. It cannot heal... lest I refuse the candied scabs you offer me. Why? Fucking why? Is it so tasty... does curdled blood moisten that cunt you call a heart? I suffer your words and the lack thereof. Why do I cry? Why the solemn and wounded expression on my face? Because I've return to where I was once before... before the time of hope and desire. A time of misery and despair, torment and sorrow... just as you found, only this time, broken beyond mending. I understand now, Layne, those words of fighting all alone... more so than I did before. Praying for safe passage, as the shroud of companionship rots. Richard insists that the only comfort and love that will ever reach this heart, is the sultry drip of a needle buried in my arm... the thickened saliva and sweaty teeth of the dirt filling my chest and powdering my nose. The brick that bathes my gullet... warm whiskey and soiled cotton. The boot offers an erection... the salty, metallic taste escorting my orgasm. I need the release. I need the numbing nod. I need the escape. I need the end...
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Raise Your Glass
I've been trying to figure this out... the sorting of odds and ends, little children and decimal points. If two makes three, then why would a fourth make only one? Lots of things in my sheltered, little world have been changing rapidly... the razor swam violently through the folds of that bloated neck. There was no blood or squirming... only a whimper, accompanying the pus and bile.
Richard came and visited me last night... it has been awhile since he displayed the strength and resolve to speak his mind unhindered. He poured me a glass of bleach and offered his opinions with malice and buttered toast. He told me to drink and to forget... forget this madness of emotions and purpose. That the road that awaits me has nothing more to offer... just the worn soles and blisters upon my feet. For once, I think he may be completely correct... there is nothing waiting down there for me, only more regret and heartache. If I were to die today, right this fucking moment, there would be nothing to prove my worth or existence. Perhaps some photographs that could be anyone really, no accomplishments or achievements. I have these scribblings on digital paper and a cardboard box of tangible delusions... nothing more, not respectable in the least. I have skeletons living in boxes.. more fingers and toes. Just waiting for their release... my secrets would come undone when the vultures come to pick through my carcass and memories. Letters and bits of hair, wrapped in shame, and the clothing they once wore... and finer too, are the cotton few, that line those photograph's tomb. No one would come to my funeral... for there wouldn't be anyone that would arrange it. My grave would shallow and unmarked, much like my life... nothing to remain when the dust comes home. My only "friends" and "companions" are in the digital world... no one touches my flesh or dries my tears, just the cracking skin of my own hands. Richard knows well, his words paint my empty canvas... but his resolve is nontransferable. I reek of cowardice and I lack the strength to end this mockery of an existence. I fucking hate it here... and I hate you, for fucking bringing me back.
Richard came and visited me last night... it has been awhile since he displayed the strength and resolve to speak his mind unhindered. He poured me a glass of bleach and offered his opinions with malice and buttered toast. He told me to drink and to forget... forget this madness of emotions and purpose. That the road that awaits me has nothing more to offer... just the worn soles and blisters upon my feet. For once, I think he may be completely correct... there is nothing waiting down there for me, only more regret and heartache. If I were to die today, right this fucking moment, there would be nothing to prove my worth or existence. Perhaps some photographs that could be anyone really, no accomplishments or achievements. I have these scribblings on digital paper and a cardboard box of tangible delusions... nothing more, not respectable in the least. I have skeletons living in boxes.. more fingers and toes. Just waiting for their release... my secrets would come undone when the vultures come to pick through my carcass and memories. Letters and bits of hair, wrapped in shame, and the clothing they once wore... and finer too, are the cotton few, that line those photograph's tomb. No one would come to my funeral... for there wouldn't be anyone that would arrange it. My grave would shallow and unmarked, much like my life... nothing to remain when the dust comes home. My only "friends" and "companions" are in the digital world... no one touches my flesh or dries my tears, just the cracking skin of my own hands. Richard knows well, his words paint my empty canvas... but his resolve is nontransferable. I reek of cowardice and I lack the strength to end this mockery of an existence. I fucking hate it here... and I hate you, for fucking bringing me back.
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