I tell you a story which begins with the sun sinking into the ocean and ends with a killing at dawn on a hill overlooking a graveyard littered with broken glass and dotted here and there with those ugly dollar store plastic flowers. The blade was sharp and she was willing and you probably saw the ending coming anyway, as I’m not the most clever story teller especially when I’ve been drinking. But I can tell you for sure that both the ocean and the blade were slashed crimson as blood. We disregard the danger to get to the thrill and with you and I it’s no different. There are bottles of whiskey smooth as hot silk and my tongue stroking yours as you gasp for air. You’re so pretty when you struggle, baby. There is the wet taste of my sex on my fingers as I insert them into your mouth and make you suck them deep down your throat. I like the sounds of you when you beg to be used. Such a handsome needy thing. I like the whimpers you make when I get you close to the edge and keep you there as I ride you like the wind. In the corner of my room there is an altar I made to remind me that I don’t believe but if I ever had a change of heart I would know exactly where to confess my undying devotion to whatever it is that has turned me into such a mess. In dreams, I carve symbols into your forearm as I kneel before you in the center of a towering cathedral. It is dark except for the bluish and purplish light streaming in through dusty stained glass high above us in the peaks of the church ceiling. As I lick your wounds I drink of your sweat and your skin, my chest aches with lust for your pain, your healing, it all belongs to me. In the presence of every god and every saint and every sinner who ever walked the earth, we fuck like sweet slutty angels upon an altar of marble and gold, much more solid, of course, than the makeshift one I’ve got at home, but still there are similarities. The ivory candles and the smell of incense, an air of reverence which gets me off as I take pleasure in our ruinous acts of desecration. You come so hard you start to cry and in my sated haze I lap like a kitten at the stream of your beautiful tears. Out across the graveyard, the one I told you about in the story earlier, the sky does not end nor do the clouds and something about the endlessness of the view from atop the hill is captivating in its eerie stillness. We are so small, so completely insignificant it both inspires and devastates. Our hearts pump the blood through our veins until they give up on us for good and all will go black, all will go silent and the pain will finally be done. I remove the blade from my pocket and carve the symbols from your forearm into the tree which stands stoic and tall in this unfeeling place. Maybe I do believe in something it’s just that it’s something no one else can understand. They hand you a rule book and tell you to pray. They tell you to keep their naughty secrets and look the other way. But the truth is, you get to decide what you worship.