Morbid and Torpid

Originally Posted: 9/7/09

Piece me together from the wounds that we've inflicted on each other. Recreate my voice from the sound bytes and snips of memory you can recover. Paint my eyes the myriad colors of your dreams and make my lips from two pear halves, tinged red with embarassment. My chest and arms will come together from bits of duts and clumps of stone. The rest of me will take shape while you breathe a flustered sigh, unsure of where to go from here. Build me again, because you've laid waste to me the way that only you can.

I've been destroyed and devoured and unmade a thousand times. It never gets easier, you never get numb to the way you flesh separating from the bone sends shrieking agony cavorting along your nerves. You can almost learn to enjoy it, the process if not the pain, but you will never become accustomed to it. I won't, at least. I refuse to get used to something so very unhealthy.

I remember being pulled apart. The way the joints burst, twisted, resisted. Finally, as if they just submitted to the inevitable, they tore and split. I could almost hear them sigh, whimsically perhaps, thinking of better days. The skin was stripped, the pulsing maze of muscle and arteries below left exposed. My insides aren't ugly so much as they're confusing. It could be a kind of beauty, or some sort of existential art, but it could also be described as horror. Loosely, at least.

I'm not sure why a simple 'Fuck you' aimed at my face is so offensive. Quite frankly, I've thrown out enough of those in enough directions that one was bound to whip a half-circle and take a dive back at me. Then again, I should know these things always come at me from the place I least expect and, for once, the surprise was enough to render me speechless. I see no sense in fighting. I'm just letting it go. Maybe that's better. Maybe I'm just too tired to bother.

Of all my vices, love and lust are the two most obnoxious. Someone once told me that at least ninety percent of my problems revolve around someone with a vagina. Or someone who allegedly has a vagina. I'm either trying to fuck them, trying not to fuck them, or wrapped up in some semblence of love. One way or another. Honestly, its gotten a little bit tedious. I mean, the sex I don't want to have is usually about as horrifying as I can possibly imagine and the sex I want to have is rarely more thrilling than watching a monkey get gang-stomped by a bunch of angry molestation victims. And love, heart-wrenching and wonderful, is getting to be a pain in the ass. I'd swear off both of them entirely, but that'd be like Old Man Junkie Shuffle swearing off crack. They'll inevitably rot my teeth, cause my skin to itch with preternatural intensity, and force me to steal from and murder my friends, but Thor Be Praised its a hell of a high.

I can't get the smell of your arousal out of my skin.

I can't get the sound of your raging out of my mind.

I'm spilling over the edges around me, cascading down the slope toward the earth far below. If the impact doesn't kill me, pray to whatever gods you embrace that the flood doesn't reach your doorstep. Because then, nothing will stop me.

Placated only by monstrosity,
-S.R.