Thursday, May 14, 2009

THC, knives and pretty hips.

What a lifetime spent inside my mind.
Fingering the lace that ties me here, pretty, soft, almost tempting, certianly interesting, but under the influence of life, I feel this overwhelming urge to sink my teeth into it and cause a tear.
I think this is where I let go, because my mind can't focus, too concentrated on the buzzing sounds and flashing realities. Half-stoned, due to dragon-kissing. Writing and recovering at the same time, wondering where the hell I went.
Pull it together, with that lace we talked about, but don't strangle yourself.
The things I wished to communicate, the on-going tugging to get the message across to you, to her, to him, to them, to me. But come on, when were demons fair?
I wonder what happened while I was too involved in myself to be with them. I wonder what I did, what they did, what we did... Oh come on, you know what it felt like to jack him off, to have him dripping on your hips, and then to have the other one sliding his fingers up... And you'd look up, startled.
"Am I doing this?"
No. You pull away, so scared, so shocked. This isn't what you wanted.
Come back. Go to sleep. Pretend you're sleeping, at the very least. Oh dear, but while you fake your dream-state, they continue to touch and persist, and you have to stay awake, so you can fight them off you.
Almost too tired to object anymore.
I know I'm coming on too personal, but this isn't how it happened at all. This is only how it has effected me.
In all truth, though I feel a little stained, I always wanted to grind my hips against his cock.
It's just, it didn't happen, did it?
"I'd fuck you so bad"
"I can't fuck you when your clothes are on"
"Want me to take them off?"
So, I'm sorry that I'm clumsy and idiotic, but you disturbed me from my fantasy.
You know, I couldn't, ever, because there's him, and her...
I think I made her mad, and I don't know how, but all I want is to feel her arms around me right now, and tell me that I didn't fuck up, that I didn't end that episode tainted, that my mind will go back to normal, because I can't stand this buzzing, this rambling, this dissection of my thought patterns. It isn't fair.
Come on, come on, reach out, swallow your pride, tell them all how you feel. Tell her, you know you need to, call him, because his face is haunting you so bad, every corner, every dream, every stranger... And tell your lover you could never feel anything for him, because there's nothing to him. You couldn't hurt him, he doesn't feel, he couldn't hurt you. He doesn't exist.
Please, please, please, don't do this the easy way.
Even while he's holding you against him, your head on his chest whilst you sleep after you've swallowed about a litre of his saliva... It's nothing, honey. It's nothing, and you know it. And you don't care. Your heart doesn't flutter, your mind doesn't conjur, your dreams aren't consistant. Fucking shadow people.
Fuck that pot shit.
I won't, I won't, I won't... But she will. When she's battling with demons, writing shit to people she doesn't believe in anymore, and wondering where the hell she went...
I'm sitting here, empty head waiting to be filled with something I know is real. Something that isn't just happening, something I'm not just thinking, not just observing.
Where the hell is he? Give me that kiss goodbye, so I know I'm real. Don't leave me with the humans, don't leave me to fall into the hands of his. Please, assure me that I have a reason to fight. Come back to me, just one last time, and I promise I'll be okay again. Don't let them see me falling apart, please.

... You're not coming back, are you?


  1. not anytime soon.
    I sent you a magazine, and a c.d.
    Consider yourself one out of ten.
    ten of the most privileged people in Perth, that town without a king.
    Consider yourself, a Psyentist.

  2. ^ That is an honour there.

    But srsly, past me, what did I tell you about writing about our sex life? This is PRIVATE. Why do you feel compelled?

    I like the title tho. It's a good fucking title.