Categories > Original > Drama0 Reviews
"We give ourselves to die constantly. "
I tried to escape reality in trace stupidities, edging out the traces of my laughter in blind alleys where we got drunk. The futile horror of simplicity, of joy and complacent love to mask my loathing for the mute hell in your eyes and the stupid compassion of your voice. The terrible, impossible compulsion to listen for the ruin latent in your face as I run from you.
There is no remorse.
The sweltering wild brilliance of the desert kept me safe, losing myself in the failing splendor of dense cities and hopeless suburbs. If I could hold the wilderness in myself, I could deny all my promises, forget all the paralyzing beauty that held me close enough to invoke your image with every breath.
All I craved was the unattainable descent, but your lips held me up, exposed too much to the light of the emptying world. I will have nothing of their faces or miserable contentment to ruin my bliss.
Eternally sought after, I would raze the centuries and laugh at the dust as it built around my ankles, the sound singularly pure, raw like a wound thrust deep into the ages, the first clear sound since birth. Nothing after.
And then, drunk, sick with the passion of immersion, drowning in the tragedy of my abnegation. Thrown into more vivid relief for it, cast with greater life on the shattered horizon and prostrate with the blindness of my own ecstasy. Loving for the love of the suffering in my palms, pouring outwards in desperate motion, driving me down. No thought, the action must be clean, inviolable.
Metallic, the smell of blood overwhelms the world, riding it down your clavicles, mouth wet and alive with the shock of its nauseous heat. Laughing, I can contain only what I can renounce, the sweeping action
Confused. I will wrap my spine around you and captivate myself, high on the vision of my own eternity. I can taste it, molding on your lips as they cool, hard and disgusting under mine. Mine, nothing will be profaned except by my hands.
Your silence was the first beauty I saw in you, and the last I hated, crushing it down into your throat, defiling your final breath, significant only in it's empty cruelty, the hollow understanding in your eyes filled anew, replaced by my wonder at your stiffened neck gleaming in the sun.
I stared down at it, suffocating in the harsh beauty of the reflected wilderness lonely on your strange bruised skin. Callous, compassionate even in death your eyes scream the night back at me, drowning my senses. I have always been too ungovernable for bliss, the pallor of your sallow face betrayed the abyss belying your flesh and the fading intoxication masking the reality of your pain with the creation of myself.
Still, I pulled up from you, hands stained and bent in on themselves. Filthy, I stared down at it, no longer truly anything but a gaping face hovering pale above a gored throat, broken and imbecilic in the dark.
There was no light, no sun. I had broken it, shattered it irrevocably, inexplicable except for the blood everywhere, surging up, congealed under my fingers.
I heard the knife clang distant as I dropped it, the floor absent under the sea of you, your fluids surging around my nostrils and through my mind, forcing the sight of you sharper, grotesquely appealing in decay. Ruined, I can't leave you.
I can hear, surreally, the convulsions rising up my chest as I retch, the vomit invisible beneath the overpowering flood of your blood, my eyes burning with tears, shaking, my shoulders sore with it, heavy with the sight of you broken over a dawn more painfully real than your death, and destroyed in the wake of your ruin.