Indestructible

I was driving home tonight, and it occurred to me that I feel strong. In fact, I feel nigh on invincible. For months I have been so wrapped up with the things that fester in my guts, so warped in outlook, that I'd forgotten just how powerful I am.

I rage against the things that would bind me, lashing out in every direction with raw hatred. It is a clean feeling, something undiminished with time or effort. Something refreshing beside the nauseating taint of brooding. Depression sits in the stomach, the throat, lines the intestines until I'm bloated and ugly, purpled with lack of air. My flesh becomes blotched, pock-marked, scarred and scabbed. Boils of infestation grow on my limbs, spilling pus until it drips from my fingertips unheeded. Hatred, though, hatred is cleansing. Hatred burns away those boils, wipes the scars off like oil trimmed off the surface of a pool of water. It expels the venom, the vileness, the infection and I can breathe, I can eat. And I'm fucking unstoppable.

I wonder where I lost sight of my own potential. I have built and destroyed in equal parts. I have torn men limb from limb and feasted on their entrails. I have laid waste to entire worlds with no more provocation than annoyance. The universe sets its sights on me, and for every blow I strike back with fists and teeth and claws. Let it come, let all the trials come that may. I will not be bowed.

I will be terror incarnate, violence beyond measure. Horrors in numbers too great to discern. I'll talk shit and spit nails and tear your heart out through your asshole.

I will savage lovers and leave them for dead until I make Byron look like a good samaritan by comparison. I will have my fill of flesh and scent and amorous things. I'll drink til I'm sated with amorphous things and finally, finally, ready for a night's rest. I have thought to settle myself down, that perhaps the things I have done are enough to quench my thirst. I think the gods have other opportunities in the making. I am hungry. I yearn for more. And with every step I grow more powerful.

An ache has grown in me of late, a terrible need in my bones for conquest. Insurmountable, this desire. To taste the cinnamon on your lips, inhale the slight tinge of cherry that clings to your skin. Alabaster white throat raise, bared for my teeth. Legs, wrapped around me tight, constricting like pythons. No difference between predator and prey.

I have slept off the last, residual effects of those dark moods. I have awoken, covered in the refuse and rubble of accumulated time and I shake myself free.

I am awake. I am powerful.

Eternally Yours,
-S.R.

Like Lili Von Shtupp

I have found, in my rare moments of reality, that I am alone in ways I cannot readily describe. The things I have always held closest to me have moved on with their lives. Onto brighter shores and, perhaps, better things. I wish I could say that makes me feel immature, that it motivates me to follow that path and be, for all intents and purposes, an adult. I wish I could feel bad about not aspiring to loftier things, about not having what the people I cherish have for themselves. But the truth is, I just feel loss.I feel lonesome. I feel as if, when you strip down all the things I've crafted around myself to make me more appealing, I'm really little more than a child in desperate need of affection, attention. And that isn't the sort of thing a grown-up should discover.

I recall our last nights together, and how I wished for an island with a volcano. Those moments, those slivers of time could be petrfied. Paradise is my Veuvius, and you could be my Pompeii.

I'm languishing. Where once I wrote lavishly of beauty, of men and women that I'd loved, now I just dwell on the things I've callously left to die, the things that have carelessly left me. All the while using enough adverbs to make and old professor of mine angry enough to throw a terminally-ill octogenarian through a plate glass window.

I remember the simple things I took joy in. The simple things that still bring me those overwhelming feelings of...what? Peace, I suppose. Contentment. Something good that feels slightly squishy in the guts. The problem seems to be that I lack some of those things, and the ones that are readily available are hardly as enticing as they used to be.

Mostly, I'm just tired of being in love.



Yours,
-S.R.