Hunger is the name of the day, seems to want to become the name of the day. She has told me I write like a kind of carnage. The wreckage of the pain on the page. No. The wreckage of the joy in the wound. She wants it inside of her like a cock, like a secret, like a needle.
She wants there to be blood. No. She wants to be able to taste the blood.
What I write I do not see but feel as a connection between myself and the passing of experience. The many connections to the tortures I want to feel mourning through my own flesh, crying though my whole body. No. Crying with my whole body.
Morning is a living creature which advances with its own brutal light. It forces, it blinds, it distorts. In its clutches, I am unable to see what scorches through my veins hot with need to see, that which lies beneath the surface of the obvious.
The light comes to murder us.
It can do so easily, no one accuses the plainness of the light. It is invisible in its visibility, this poison which fills and fills its stomach with its own desires. It takes and takes and takes
everything it sees.
And so we hide. We duck under the rocks to avoid the blow of the blade.
I trace my fingers along the shadows in her face, my skin soft along the hollow of her cheek. My wrist inside her warm wet mouth. I suck against it with my own cupped breathing. Pulse to pulse, we endure the slow waves of assault. Swallow the brutal elegance of the sin.
Sensation hot with the exquisite press of needing, wanting, the breaking point between infinite desire and the sweetness of complete destruction.
We want to write, we want to create, we want to know the feeling of surrender to a kind of innocence we once knew. No. We once were.
She takes her hand from my hand and moves it down along my panting, caressing. The wreckage of the beauty of the bruising. Of the ecstasy. No. Of the kill.