I will tear you limb from limb, and revel in my power over you. I will break your fragile bones and suck the marrow from the center. I will cut slivers from your organs and eat them at my leisure. I will fucking kill you and never spare you a second thought.
Discarding bodies and discarding lovers are so similar I find the comparison almost pointless to draw. So much blood. Those glassy, lifeless eyes. The ache that returns, so savagely, after the briefest period of their absence. It fades, it flows, it finds its way home and then drowns you, polishing off a bottle of bourbon and leaving your lungs choked with brine and your veins thick with lust.
I can taste ash, like the men of Pompeii, just before Vesuvius buried them forever.
She hemorrhages in my dreams, the way they all do, jet black blood that oozes, colored and clouded and coagulated with disease. It flows, not swiftly and not willingly. Only by virtue of the number of wounds I've inflicted. Horrors in numbers too great to discern, the rotting of worlds to the conqueror worm.
I will make war on your body in ways that will leave you surrounded, beseiged, utterly without hope as famine sets in and the ransacking waits, hungry, eager to taste sweet meat. The horde I will raise to strike against your walls will be unstoppable, interested only in pillage, in the slaughter, in the bloodrage.
And you will breathe your last somewhere in the lingering time between dark and light, overlooking the sea with the salt in your pores and the breath of the ocean in your hair. The place where all my jilted lovers go to die.
Death is only a matter of a little pain.
You're doomed,
-S.R.
No comments:
Post a Comment