Death as signature cocktail. Destruction as punchline. Death as if anyone has any idea about what life could possibly mean without it looming off in the gray smeared distance. Hills rolling along for ages, fields and fields of silky patterned shifting shadow and light. I close my eyes and squeeze them tight.
They say it’s frightening how easily horror can become habit. How grim a trick that is and how we do it to ourselves. I know I’m not for everyone. I know I say the wrong thing even when I try to make it come out right but I don’t think we should trust that anymore, do you? What’s wrong or right. You know, they used to force the left-handed kids to use their right hand. How stupidly unnatural and what a waste of time.
I know I distract you. That’s probably why you like me so much, or imagine you do. It’s a softer way of hating yourself. You should know it’s how I distract myself that I’m most afraid of. Perhaps you should be, too, but I can’t think for both of us. Life is trouble enough. Idle hands are the Devil’s tools, did anyone ever tell you that? They told me. Fold your hands. Sit on them. Keep them to yourself. But never touch yourself, splintered seed. Only to groom or to worship or to serve others. Them.
I cut off my hands in the dark and place them in the silver box they came in. For good reason. For Christ’s sake. I am forbidden to myself. This is where arousal begins its slick slithering, its low slow burning. How the witch ignites herself. I fasten my hands to one another. Slide them along my smooth thighs. Pray to be forgiven.
It wasn’t the boredom they told me about that dismantled me. It was the rise of dark fantasy which has existed since the beginning of time. Sacred Eve. Hallowed Evil. Curled and coiled Serpent. It has been the sweet, succulent curse of creativity. The Womb. The magick of the Devil’s horned vision and its swollen press upon the vein. Mouths full of degradation, mouths full of the decadent fall.
We are out there in the world they painted red for us. Watching. Splicing together scenes. Personalities. Dismantling them, reassembling body parts, mind parts, ancient symbols and distorted themes. The trouble is they fed me lies about my power and I liked them. I nursed on them and bled for them and made them true. And now they don’t seem to like it so much anymore But I do.
. . . . . .
Trying to pull apart some things which are likely better left alone. But such is the strange cruel incision of my curiosity.