[Désastre Corporel]

sexonadeathbed: I’ll take off all my skinjust to let you...

Tue, 18 Jun 2013 14:37:04 -0700

I’ll take off all my skin
just to let you in
you’ll see my big black mess
my aching emptiness

you’ll never fill me
no matter how long you try
you’ll just get lost
inside

you’ll lose those perfect eyes
lose that perfect mouth
and just like me you’ll be
a pile of bones

and I’ll be kissing you
in the bone yard

give this prince a poisoned apple the time has come for sleep.

Mon, 17 Jun 2013 11:05:06 -0700

give this prince a

poisoned apple

the time has come

for sleep.

Candy-Boy

Sun, 28 Apr 2013 16:43:30 -0700

Those curves are hard earned, they tell me,
from a lifetime of feminizing being wrapped around my waist
like a corset made of good intentions/sexual tension.
I want to rip it open, whale bone ribs and spring-steel busk
used to stab and slice at the reality
of my situation.
I want to be sturdy, not soft,
handsome, not pretty,
delicate in all the right ways—
a beautiful candy-boy
made of spun sugar and surgical steel.
Digging into your heart, your bones,
I want the memories of
“Is that a boy or a girl, mommy?” answered with
“I don’t know, sweetheart” to be seared into your mind with
pride.

The Things We Do For Love

Mon, 15 Apr 2013 11:56:00 -0700

They didn’t realize the world was ending until the day their eyes met. His were steel and hers were a hurricane, beating his foundations into something raw, bleeding, and new. No, they had no clue reality was unravelling as their lips met, explosions in the distance and shrapnel in the air were the fireworks behind their eyes. There was no way for them to realize Hell had broken loose the first time he touched her, leaving ash fingerprints on her breasts, bloody crescents in her hips, demons cheering on their union as the world burned. But they knew one thing. That someday, people would tell their children stories of the terrible things these two fleeting gods did for love.

Work In Progress

Fri, 22 Mar 2013 00:15:00 -0700

When he pushed her against the wall, she knew it was the last straw.

She stood on shaking legs, blinded in a film of red. Something out of a horror movie. But hey, so was her life.

Who knew that he would try to take it this far? When did “no” become “absolutely yes”?

But that was then. And this, this was now.
This was a hand crusted in dried blood, clutching the hammer.

This was the slow walk downstairs, past photos and sports memorabilia, the shitty guitar he had hung on the wall. She always hated it. Hated his playing. Such an amateur.

This was the approach, the tape ripping apart and around, the sweaty sock gag slipped behind protesting teeth. Too drunk to fight.

This was the hammer, raised proudly high. This was the skull, cracking like a coconut, sweet liquid leaking out. This was frantic pig-squeals, this was dazed and foggy eyes.

This was euphoria.

sexonadeathbed: “დიდხანს იყოს თქვენი ტანჯვა, მხიარული იყოს თქვენი ტკივილი!” “Long be your...

Thu, 14 Mar 2013 00:14:36 -0700

sexonadeathbed:

“დიდხანს იყოს თქვენი ტანჯვა, მხიარული იყოს თქვენი ტკივილი!”

“Long be your suffering; Joyous be your pain!”

“We don’t like being lied to.”A stinging slap across your cheek, and a moment later you’re spitting...

Wed, 13 Mar 2013 08:53:48 -0700

“We don’t like being lied to.”
A stinging slap across your cheek, and a moment later you’re spitting out blood.
“You lied to us.”
A punch to the jaw, and it’s a tooth you’ve spat out this time. A renegade molar smacks me in the cheek, and I laugh, the sound wrong to the ear; too many voices for one cruel mouth.
“We saw what you did, read it with our own eyes. Why would you lie?” Slash. Scream.
“Why?!” Quiver. Quake.
I toss the knife into the corner of the room. Useless. If She won’t make you talk, what will?
I grasp your broken face in my hands, twisting for emphasis. You wince, cry out, spatter my face red and wet.
My eyes are twin coals now. There is no going back.

In a way, I think you wanted it to end up like this. You’re gagged. Blindfolded. Tied with...

Mon, 11 Mar 2013 09:43:09 -0700

In a way, I think you wanted it to end up like this.
You’re gagged. Blindfolded. Tied with rope. Duct taped to a sturdy chair, hands and ankles bound, raw and oozing.
You cant reply, but that’s alright. You’re too groggy, not aware of your surroundings. The dusty old barn, dilapidated and rotting, holds the cloying odor of decaying hay, animal bones, ancient dust. The scent will reach your nose soon, and when I uncover your eyes, they’ll beautifully contract with fear.
Or so I hope.
“Darling. Wake up. C’mon sunshine. The world says ‘hello!’”.
I undo your blindfold in a flourish, your eyes fluttering open, catching a dim ray of light that makes them blaze that gilded green I love. Breathtaking. For a moment, I can’t speak.
Then I remember the task at hand, and swallow all emotion but quiet, cold rage.
“Good, you’re up. Be glad I didn’t have to wake you on my own terms.” I stare down at you, a grimace on my lips. “I really wish you had believed me. Believed that I would come for you. I never was able to lie to you, after all.”

Your screams shook dust from the rafters, startled spiders into hiding.
But they didn’t last.

sexonadeathbed: “If you die,” she said, “so will I.” “That’s just a metaphor.” “No, that’s just...

Sat, 09 Mar 2013 17:47:24 -0800

sexonadeathbed:

“If you die,” she said, “so will I.”
“That’s just a metaphor.”
“No, that’s just love.”

sexonadeathbed: I want to press my lips to your gaping wounds, my tongue your only bandage, eyes...

Sat, 02 Mar 2013 22:12:48 -0800

sexonadeathbed:

I want to press my lips to your gaping wounds, my tongue your only bandage, eyes sparking antiseptic flame, cold, cauterizing, cleansing.

sexonadeathbed: I wish I could see you right now. I wish I could hold you, curl Into the hollow...

Wed, 20 Feb 2013 14:11:12 -0800

sexonadeathbed:

I wish I could see you right now.
I wish I could hold you, curl
Into the hollow of your back, bury
My face in your too long hair;
I hate you, I want you,
I want you I want you
I want you
dead.

Tomorrow I will Buy myself chocolates In delicate cardboard Heart-Shaped Box-es And wilting roses...

Thu, 14 Feb 2013 20:38:31 -0800

Tomorrow I will
Buy myself chocolates
In delicate cardboard
Heart-Shaped Box-es
And wilting roses no-one chose;
Roses just like me.

sexonadeathbed: All of my lives keep spilling over into each other—I cannot keep them separate. I...

Wed, 23 Jan 2013 20:25:29 -0800

sexonadeathbed:

All of my lives keep spilling over into each other—I cannot keep them separate. I can no longer differentiate which me I happen to be.

wip

Thu, 27 Dec 2012 13:55:16 -0800

Bruise didn’t have friends. Not exactly.

Nor did he have any family, no, not in the conventional sense. He stood by the towering Christmas tree, a monster of fir and tinsel and tiny sparkling lights, lights that glanced off Bruise’s fingernails like smooth shards of ice. Admired the large room, filled with modern furniture, presents on all surfaces, the smiling cheery faces that belonged to this home beaming from metal picture frames above the roaring fire. The home still held the heady aroma of pine needles and spiced apples, mulled cider.

This was not his home. if he had one to begin with. No, Bruise didn’t live anywhere. He licked the corner of his finely sculpted mouth, then spat venomously into the container of water that kept the tree clinging pathetically to life. He would not be there to revel in the looks of dismay that would cover this family’s faces as they gazed at their blackened and decaying symbol of the season. Bruise would be long gone by then.

Her flesh stirred beneath his fingers, and he recoiled, stuttering, “I-I am sorry, I could not...

Sat, 22 Dec 2012 19:56:14 -0800

Her flesh stirred beneath his fingers, and he recoiled, stuttering, “I-I am sorry, I could not help but to touch you, you were so still, so beautiful—” he paused here, thoughtfully adding, “I only wanted to ruin you a little bit.”

The candlelights in the chamber began to flicker and fade, instilling a great fear in Vellian’s heart. He quivered and cringed, and the form beneath him began to rise, and as she devoured him soul and all, he realized his folly.

Diary entry, dated Oct. 19th, 2012

Sun, 09 Dec 2012 20:44:44 -0800

sexonadeathbed:

I love it when he scoops me in his arms just before the sun rises, just before he leaves for work in the morning. He tells me I should go out, get some fresh air, and he mauls my cheek and neck with stubbly kisses, his still damp hair sticking to my cheek. I love his glee at the fact that it is Friday, which means casual dress. And most of all, I fear that I am beginning to love him.

[ a piece i wrote years ago after the dissolution of a four-year...

Fri, 07 Dec 2012 10:41:16 -0800

[ a piece i wrote years ago after the dissolution of a four-year relationship. ]

It’s not a quick plummet. This time it is a slow descent. This is not romantic. This is not...

Sun, 02 Dec 2012 14:11:42 -0800

It’s not a quick plummet.

This time it is a slow descent.

This is not romantic.

This is not “beautiful melancholy”

This is me wanting to end the world

tonight.

sexonadeathbed: You make my blood stir. I haven’t felt this in a long while, the easy tug of it...

Sun, 25 Nov 2012 21:36:17 -0800

sexonadeathbed:

You make my blood stir.

I haven’t felt this in a long while, the easy tug of it through fragile vein, rubbery artery. The grasp on the vital muscle nested in my chest between meat and bone-cage. The thud and thrust of blood through delicate tissue, making me feel something resembling life.

I find it difficult

to remember a time when

this felt familiar,

felt

right.

- It was rough and it was meaningless. It smelled of spice,...

Sat, 24 Nov 2012 14:10:36 -0800

It was rough and it was meaningless. It smelled of spice, tasted like ash. It made me lose myself momentarily, and beyond that, it made me hate. Flesh met wood when my body cascaded through a tangle of sheets and onto the floor, not bothering to regain poise, the cold hard surface comforting as it splintered my cheek. I was tired, but you insisted on making me your plaything once more, and I obliged because who could say no to you.

It was only I, I who found your eyes captivating as they tore me limb from limb, your skin so beautiful as it feverishly bruised my own, your voice so low when it whispered promises and promises along my neck and my spine but fell short of my ears.

‘We cannot love,’ you told me.

You tell me you murdered me, with a devilish grin, but it’s what you tell me next that ignites that spark in your eyes, the one that scares me. The one that makes me feel immortal.

Once again you’re lying next to me, smoking cigarette after cigarette and I choke silently beside you and when you pres that burning end into my skin my body screams, my face contorting; sick pleasure. There is nobody more perfect for each other than us, my need to feel such pain, bliss, emptiness—and your absolute need to inflict it.

Your brush your bloody fingers across my cheekbone and you smile at me, not the sort of smile people expect, it’s somber and it hides nothing, and it means everything to me. Accompanying the ache in my guts is something else this time, something alien, something alive. Born in my stomach and now it flutters against the walls of the cavity that is my chest. It’s a slightly euphoric feeling, mingled with nausea. I hate it. I don’t know what it is, but I hate it. It makes my heart beat faster and louder and faster and louder and it makes me anxious.

You startle me when you walked back into the room, and I wondered why I hadn’t noticed you leave. I gulp down the handful of sugar-coated painkillers I spent most of the day looking for. You were not here to find them for me. I needed you, and I felt disgusting and it made me feel warm and that stopped me in my tracks because I have never once felt anything for you.

My shoulder aches where you drew blood, and the tiny crescent marks that track up my arm like silver soldiers almost shine when the light hits them right. This is when you told me you were tired of it, and I didn’t have to ask you what you meant by it, because I was tired of it too.

You kissed me shortly after and it made my stomach turn, in that unpleasant fluttery way again. This wasn’t brusque, and it didn’t taste like lust. It was sweeter, and I didn’t quite hate it. You made me feel insecure and scared and worst of all, helpless. How fucking weak. But this time you didn’t make me feel anger, and I don’t know if I should thank you for that.

You still held my arms to tight they bruised, but this time you traced them like a map with your fingertips and apologized softly. You probably expected that to make me feel awful, I was expecting it too, but we were both surprised when I laced the plum-bruised fingers into yours and hummed an acceptance into your chest.

You used the table as an ashtray this time, and I was angry because I longed for that burn, craved it, was angry because it was it was the longing I felt for the replacement of your fingers on my skin instead of your cigarette. My anger made you smile, but this time it wasn’t somber, and this time I didn’t think it meant anything to me. But I realized moments later that I could not get it out of my head because it meant more than everything.

You still like it rough, and I still ached for the bruises. You never stopped smelling of spices and tasting like ash. You still smile that devilish grin and you still quicken my pulse, still make me feel invincible. You still bite me and fuck me like I mean nothing to you; you still kiss me and my stomach still flutters,

And I still really don’t love you. Not really. Not yet.