A favorite revisited, reposted

‘Fire of my loins’
The left foot was nothing. Pure bliss and happiness, no thoughts, just doing. It was the right foot that brings me to this dramatic, baneful happening of self reflection and euphoria.
A sick euphoria that I only understand.
At least I tell myself that I am truly the only one who understands. Deep down I know this is false.
The hottest bath I have ever drawn. Not purposely. I just happened to be hopelessly caught up in finding the perfect depressing lyrics to accompany me with this soak that the amount of cold did not compliment the full blown heat nearing the rim of the plain, generic, ‘let’s pretend it’s porcelain’ bathtub.
Accidentally filling to capacity yet intentionally tormenting and inviting my body and vulnerability. The two go very well together…testing me.
It was my surrender.
My resignation to the defective complex created by something special.
A breakdown, a defect, a love story.
Eating away at my surface and my mind.
I hand my comfort over to the reflective alloy beside me as if it were my friend, telling me that this will go away.
It will.
This bath is my conflagration and I am only two feet in.
Slowly I subject myself to the purity before me ready to murk it up.
I suppose you can say I am just as well taking away it’s innocence in return.
My intentions are not as vulgar.
I force my skin into the burning pool.
A sigh of pain and pleasure prematurely escape.
I am never as strong as I presume and I am becoming increasingly aware that it is for my own safety.
This alloy slips below to remind me that everything is okay.
Reminds me that I am in control.
Something has to.
I am aware of it’s invisibility, that’s okay.
It takes a particular strength to release that admirable wavelength on the visible spectrum reflecting the paint to my existence.
It will never happen.
It would be so beautiful. So beautiful.
Mesmerizing and unlike any drug. Hypnotizing and sexual.
Dirty.
Clean.
I am in a stupor.
It’s become too much I tell myself, though I know it has not.
My tresses drenches and the aching sensitivity running across my skin and lathering my scalp urges me to arise and come back to a life I have purposely tortured and teased yet fight for daily.
Collapsing is not far from reality.
So good. So legal.

You think you hate humanity? Think again…Because I am humanity. (I know.)

I walked into the room damp, clammy and awkward…full of angst.
I am so much better. So, so much better.
No matter how much they say “be humble and face your humility”.
I am special.
Untouchable and free. Kissing myself ready to fuck myself.
OH. If I could be with my own self…my own humility…moving on.
Hard surface killing me softly. Abusing my flesh and bone, for it is not used to such uninvited torment.
I embrace it. It reminds me of something so familiar. Unhealthy and in control…moving on.
Red bull. Gross, I smell it. Memories enhanced but left unremembered for the lack of vodka. Candy coats the floor.
Shaking puppies and sad souls. I do feel sorry for them all, and myself. I am here after all.
That is what makes me better. Stronger. A heroine.
Oh my god.
I turn myself on.
I am needed and used. So old and boring but deficient in something…the allure that I sense within my own self.
Moving. On.
Tense and rigid. Prematurely placed in this position I will not cry.
My thrills are gone. Used up and departed…too bad. Thrills are what fuel me and set me free.
I am the thrill.
I am the crutch to what humanity seeks.
Humility? Not quite.
I am just getting ahead of myself…let alone started.
I don’t even make sense.
Moving on.
I need to freak out. Freak. The fuck. Out. Like I like. Like I am comfortable with. Like what makes me the desirable, edible flesh that chasers seek.
Get over yourself, get on yourself. Touch yourself.
I dance for myself, my own puppet, and it turns me on only because I know of it’s capability.
Mesmerizing and a total front.
Jesus Christ, these people. Just decompose and leave this world already.
Seriously, my brain.
Moving on.
I must move on or I will build up hate, a lifeless, limp ego. I just want to play.
I don’t need this. The others need this. They need me. To be apart of it. Of them. Hope. I can accept that. It’s just so curious and unfamiliar…At the same time so sad and unguided.
I see it. I smell it and feel it. I feel me. I smell and see me in them all.
The difference?
I’m a beast.
As Britney says:
Let’s make a team, make ‘em say my name.
I’m not religious but…Thank God for pop music.

Intrepid smut

 

The closer I hold it to me, the further it takes me
Away from what might be ambition
My antidote and my life line
Am I a darling. No.
Trying never came so concentrated, throbbing.
I suppose if this performance convinces others…they will follow.
They did.
My god, I am naked. For the first time in my life.
Naked and vulnerable to the ones who I hide from for their own safety.
Like smut. Fantastic.
They know now. They know my smut. The shameless, undignified girl who breathes tar that was at one point a princess and in some form still is.
The princess evolved. The kind that dresses the part but lacks the poise. Always pink and fresh.
A miracle. A doubt to whom conceived me for their lack in ability to properly condition my philanthropy.
I am no longer a coward to my self attribution.
Onward the journey.

My bones visible and strong asking for what they overlook in times of accountability.

Being filled by something right.  Someone right.

For the first time in my life I want to wear lipstick for all the right reasons.

 

“Heroin Death”NN