This is a strange urge.
I continue to bear my wrists out in front of me, to the empty screen, to the quiet room, to the expanse of road before me.
A silent offering.
An urge to beg of some unseen company
Slash at the pale skin.
Sup from my veins.
Take from me.
Let it consume you because it has consumed me.
Catch fire with me
Watch the madness trickle from my eyes and flow from my lips
Let my passion scorch at the ceiling
Leave the dark marks of my lust upon the walls.
Attach a wild tuft of my hair to my stripped bones and gather up my blood.
Paint the world in my visions, my dreams, my nightmares.
Let my words cascade into you with voracious abandon.
Catch fire with me.
Let it take hold in you,
Grow in you,
Rot in you.
Until you return to see the fading marks of my obsessions
Until the blood has dried
Until the meat is gone
Until nothing is left but the memory of someone bearing their wrists out to you
Silently begging you to partake.
It happens in a cycle of eight days.
On day one, he would saunter into the expansive ballroom with food resting on a silver platter. He would leave it by the side of the body on the floor, and if he was feeling extra generous, or if the sex had been that good, maybe a blanket to cover her or a new outfit for her if the old one had been torn to tatters again.
By the second day she’s managed to choke down some of the food. Sometimes she’s truly ravenous, tearing at the tray with bloodied hands to gorge herself on her personal feast. More often than not she picks at it with the tarnished silverware. She’ll dress herself, use the water from the broken fountain to tidy her hair and face, wipe the bloodstains from the ballroom floor, and even rinse the dishes she ate from. She’ll focus on tending some of her injuries before taking a deep breath and leaving the room to find him. On day two he’s always in his ‘study’, a room made of illusions where he sits, his elbows on his desk, hands clasped together, waiting for her to return.
Day three is spent in memories. They touch tenderly, shyly, exploring one another with gently encouraged fingertips and deep breaths. He is very fond of washing her hair. His fingers carded through the damp, red locks that would bring a gentle contented hum into the quiet. She sat still and satiated when he ran the oil slicked comb through her hair
Continue reading “Eight Days”
Holy shit I both updated my blog AND it’s original fiction. Who knew?
Each and every night I take to the stage, it is to tell the same story with my voice. It’s to call up a world too real to only be a dream, pain too harsh to only be fantasy. The hundreds of eyes that watch me upon the stage never know I’m fading away as I recall the memories that bring out my voice.
My hands always shake when I reach out to grab the microphone.
Will he hear me tonight?
My hands, gloved in white satin, clutch the cold metal stand as the intro plays. My dress swishes as I step forward. I close my eyes and return to the only place I was truly alive.