Good lord...
Just going through some of my stuff from around 2004, I think...Found two that really surprised me. I haven't felt this angry or this fucked up in forever...Well, since 2004, lol.
They're not for everyone, with the subject matter being what it is. I do not condone any of the things in the the first piece, but again, the dark side of life needs to be written about too. Possibly triggering.
They're not for everyone, with the subject matter being what it is. I do not condone any of the things in the the first piece, but again, the dark side of life needs to be written about too. Possibly triggering.
Spurting warm, but flowing cool. Her crimson nectar spills freely from her body and onto the cruel, harsh concrete.
Her heart no longer beats. No longer flutters or makes a sound.
A gash on her temple bleeds - though slowing now. Her cause of death.
She's naked in the darkness - no cloth adorns her broken frame. No garment protects her hidden parts.
Blood, now congealing, oozes from her newly shadowed region. Heaven will never take her now. Too broken.
She wasn't nearly as feisty as is desireable. A finger pushed in and she did nothing. Her clothing cut away and she sobbed. Too impure for heaven - not strong enough, too pitiful for hell.
Naked, she stood on the road - no one around. The moonlight on her barely pubescent flesh. Budding breasts. Pale skin.
Unzipped and inserted and a cry. A scream. A plead. A struggle. That's more like it. The fun! The fight! The chase!
The prey gripped in broad talons. No escape. More struggle and a massive release.
Trying to fight - but wounded. A lion and a mouse. Power and glory. Glory struck down by power. Not so glorified now.
The end result? Dark burgundy emblazoned on the cold footpath and road like a sick emblem. A grotesque reminder of the cure of weakness.
Her heart no longer beats. No longer flutters or makes a sound.
A gash on her temple bleeds - though slowing now. Her cause of death.
She's naked in the darkness - no cloth adorns her broken frame. No garment protects her hidden parts.
Blood, now congealing, oozes from her newly shadowed region. Heaven will never take her now. Too broken.
She wasn't nearly as feisty as is desireable. A finger pushed in and she did nothing. Her clothing cut away and she sobbed. Too impure for heaven - not strong enough, too pitiful for hell.
Naked, she stood on the road - no one around. The moonlight on her barely pubescent flesh. Budding breasts. Pale skin.
Unzipped and inserted and a cry. A scream. A plead. A struggle. That's more like it. The fun! The fight! The chase!
The prey gripped in broad talons. No escape. More struggle and a massive release.
Trying to fight - but wounded. A lion and a mouse. Power and glory. Glory struck down by power. Not so glorified now.
The end result? Dark burgundy emblazoned on the cold footpath and road like a sick emblem. A grotesque reminder of the cure of weakness.
You can feel it in your blood, travelling like a parasite in your body. With every beat of your fetid black heart, you feel the virus split, procreating. Making copies of itself.
Under your skin, you see them crawling. Making ridges and bumps, divots and dips. Seething and sinking below your feeble flesh.
You reach into your skin and try to grab for the worms, the filthy, tiny beasts, but you can't reach.
We reach triumph not with the gun, but with the bayonet. So you cut deep into your flesh, ripping and tearing away at the gore and sinews and finally snatch hold of the wriggling feind.
Pulling and unravelling it from yourself, your body too begins to unravel, as if connected to this thing - this worm, like a stream of your own thoughts.
The seams of your being come undone and leave you as an insignificant pile of ash and bone on the ground.
Your thoughts will devour you.
Under your skin, you see them crawling. Making ridges and bumps, divots and dips. Seething and sinking below your feeble flesh.
You reach into your skin and try to grab for the worms, the filthy, tiny beasts, but you can't reach.
We reach triumph not with the gun, but with the bayonet. So you cut deep into your flesh, ripping and tearing away at the gore and sinews and finally snatch hold of the wriggling feind.
Pulling and unravelling it from yourself, your body too begins to unravel, as if connected to this thing - this worm, like a stream of your own thoughts.
The seams of your being come undone and leave you as an insignificant pile of ash and bone on the ground.
Your thoughts will devour you.