Triggers are a tough tangle, they seem to elude you even as they decorate your dark disturbing thoughts with false promises, plastic limbs and rehearsed orgasms, and somewhere in the shimmer of crystal webs made of chaotic screams, I am a ruby spider with sapphire eyes borrowed from the destruction of another world.
This life is only death, beloved, with her pale foreign face turning slow, fading into sweet melody against the phases of the moon.
How many legs, how many lives, what does it matter to be trapped, to be exposed, to be an overflow of mouths if all of this is just a dream?
Too many people slam nails into the coffin of a narrow system they’ve yet to believe in, but I’m not a slave to passion as much as I want so completely to remember an exact pierce: how to resuscitate my own experience, shatter like glass into my own symphonic ecstasy, sit obediently, patiently, tenderly with the sadness of my own solitary pain, drink from your forbidden wells and emerge pristine in the oil stained streets of every neglected city at the sunset of the final collapse of time.
Would you walk with me if I were blind, if the heels of the night were the only way home?
The sincere (I’m too seasoned to dare assume innocent, but I’m far beyond devotion to shallow truth so I’ll say sincere) intricate fabric of your interest in the oddity of dangerous things probes at the swell of ache within me. What is faith if not the pleasurable agony of longing spiked sharp with the buried memory of impossible exotic demands: command without control, love songs strung up in cages covered in orchids, virgins tasting stamen, tears in my angel hair washing your perfumed feet.
I’m not sure normal is a thing we should be concerned with, as you seem content when I’m taken in mind, body and spirit, by your view of me through windows draped in erotic scenes. We are ruthless and humble, undressed and willing, inside the beginning again and again when you lap at the edges of heat in circles of flesh across my pink sedated mind.
The heart of me is the heart of all creatures: motionless, the beauty of the stillness after a kill. Vulgar doesn’t distract me, crooked is just another trick to get back to the way it was before the labels they’ve stitched inside your skin. Forget them, turn into me; I’ll be your religion, love, tell me wordless what you need.
You like the press and the smell of leather to my lips, how I’m thorough but careful of the words I never speak. There is no such freedom as the emotions you’re not allowed to express and this is the fear, this is the tempt, this is the withholding, this is the paralysis, this is the plague. This is the game and the price you pay to play.
Heaven is the clutching of your pulse on the distorted lens of what you crave, my soft teeth tugging at the waves of trembling madness underneath.
Invitation.
Invocation.
Addiction. Affliction.
Redemption. Release.
Faith is carved in the center of your hands: trust in all the things you wish you didn’t need.
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Allison Marie Conway 