Reasons for Living


One half of me pictures her on a golden plateau wearing a pretty skyline dress, her face painted cute with lipstick and mascara, so tempting like only she knows how. I walk towards her, my hands wanting, not caring about anything else. Ripping off her dress, I reveal a body I’ve taken so many times before. She’s mine, and she’ll always be mine. Others will come and go, yet none will have her the way I did. No one will ever degrade and cherish her in equal measure. With a hand around her throat, and my mouth upon her ear, I’ll tell her how it will be, and she’ll take it because she needs it above all else. The urge to destroy, to fill her with love and hate, to vent my frustrations because I’m sick of taking them out on myself. She wants me to hit her, to inflict without a word. She deserves to be taught a lesson, and there’s nothing more she deserves than to be taught just how everything works. Through my eyes, she divides, like flowers and snakes, the seas of the womb I escaped from so many years ago calling me back home. All I want is to return, to get back to the oceans of unbecoming so I may forever be free. She alone holds the key, and she alone knows my secrets. Somewhere between the gutter and the sun, my fingers remember the contours of her thighs, and the weight of her breasts within my greasy hands. It’s only flesh, yet flesh is what we are. Flesh and madness, a frenzy of sensations as she chews me up to the sound of war. The war of bellies full of insects and skulls of demons hungry for the taste of her dirty, lying mouth.

Alive. Dead, and all that’s inbetween. Her neck, and the way my tongue tastes the flavour of her perfume. It reminds me of winter, and the way we embraced against the cold that never seemed to end. Bite marks and fallen kingdoms in the time it takes for me to wash my sins away. A shower, and the boredom of warm weather. Life is worth living when there’s nothing left to do. Activity tricks us into thinking that things are okay, yet the absence of structure means all we can do is disappear through fucking. It’s low and it’s hollow and it reduces the soul to something sorrowful, yet we are animals one and all. Animals with an eye for something strange and delightful. The rest are brain dead, just heads on sticks with no sense of class and little in the way of magic. The others you’ve had will never see beyond their own dim cages of dumb. All slick haircuts and muscles, fast cars and the inability to grasp simple language. They know nothing of love, and zero of what it means to dance on edges of the abyss we caress so greedily. In our prime, they pale in comparison. Spit out replicas. Mutilate all imagery that mocks meaning. Bend your arms back like you used to, and bleed me because that’s what you want more than anything. Take me as I am. Take my everything and sing and scream and hate my touch like it were some kind of disease. Don’t listen, and don’t ask questions. Keep that mouth quiet, and take my hand. Know what follows, and remember the way my fingers spread you like the pages of a book. They open you wide, and they search deep within. Instruments of perfection. Reasons for living.

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