You to Me.

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Days are the same.

And my mind will never change.

You remain                                                                                                                                          an unrivaled thought.

Because I have a furiously isolated avidity,                                                                                  an exclusive thirst                                                                                                                                 for the only love I’ve known.

You fill the most hollow cracks of my brokenness                                                                           and fascinate me with your own.                                                                                                        You possess the most perfect damage.

A mess.                                                                                                                                                      Calamitous.                                                                                                                                              A flawless crisis.

But it is within struggle that I find purpose                                                                                       and sustainable continuance.

You to me:                                                                                                                                                  matchless.

How is it that after all this time, I still look into your eyes and ponder over how fortunate I am to be with someone so beautiful and broken.

Missing: empathy

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Empathy

doesn’t exist.

Torn apart by your ultimate fears.                                                                                      Haunted by everything putrid                                                                                          stemming as far back as puberty.

Premature trauma

festering into conscious nightmares of an inevitable and perpetual damaged soul because you become the trauma.

You become the embodiment of everything – everyone who’s been hurt.

It doesn’t end.

It doesn’t end because

i reminisce about narrowing rooms and dying heartbeats.

because

i fantasize about the beatings and breaking i deserved.

because

i’m everyone’s understanding                                                                                                                     everyone‘s patience.

You’re every bad day                                                                                                                                          every bad trip

 everyone’s everything that hurts.

it hurts.

 

Unsolicited validation – A short story

rape

missing: validation

I hate validation.

Not before.

It was a requirement – a prerequisite.

Make me.

Make me feel

beautiful and

worthy and

smart.

Make me feel something.

An inconvenience now. A frustration. Take my body, kind stranger. Tell me fucking lies and

Make me feel.

Speak deceitful words of love. Force me into your corner.

I’m vulnerable. Tell me I’m not.

I’m weak. Tell me I’m not.

I’m so fucking stupid. Tell me I’m not.

Or.

Should I validate you?

Best I’ve ever had. You’re not.

Biggest.

You’re not.

Only.

You’re not.

Because I use you. Do you think you possess control? Do you manipulate me?

Am I the most beautiful woman in the world because I currently lay on your bed with my pussy wide open?

You have no control nor do you have power over me. I lay here because it is what I have willed. I will be fucked because it is what I have asked for.

 

not always.

i didnt ask for you. i refused to even let your lips touch mine – a fact. yet, there i was. screaming no onto deaf ears. with a torn shirt and jeans pulled down to my knees. and your head – your head which reeked of cheap vodka, shitty weed, and stale chlorine – tuckd tightly between my legs. and i froze. i guess i am fucking weak – fucking stupid. you come up and youre ready – trying to push yourself into me with your pathetic limp dick. roll over. and pass out. and then silence.

The heart is certainly something to be restrained and gagged.

Control

tumblr_nwi7xsIvSx1ufl0abo1_1280The human heart – vile thing  – grovels to the most minor act of affection thereby rendering its possessor a most putrid creature, in my mind at least. A self-destructive ornament, an emotional machine. A store room for wounding thoughts, noxious memories, and ominous reminders.  It is of a retentive nature – releasing pieces of pain without hesitation – and in an untimely manner. It makes everything mean…anything. Without control, it is weak.

“Look at this scar. Hurt. Break.”

“Do you recall those malicious words that ripped through you?”

“Tell them of the agony that you’ve faced – where all shows of tenderness were lost and misery was mocked.”

“Hurt me. More.”

Don’t you see, child? It will cast the darkest shadow over your eyes – blind you, it won’t. Ruin you? Maybe. Your own sense of perfection and attachment become blurred because you’re a vessel of milky mess filled with everything absent of necessity. Poison resonates well with you because your half-witted heart requires everything in excess of necessity. Laughable. Your emotional reasoning is mere trivia because it omits control.

“Secure your mind’s own compliance by controlling your thoughts and desires.”

Strengthen your control system – the mind. A creator of vigor through exorbitant reasoning – however, a wisdom-producing mechanism to curb the incessant droning of our emotional factories. The great creator of exceptionally relative truth. When one fails to master control of self first, the mind becomes an unruly vessel; rationalizing self-destruction, accompanying our demise. In this way, we ruin ourselves – naivety and bare lunacy. The rawest and most natural form of an absolute imbecile, you will become.

We choose to see good and find meaning where none exists. See, your weak mind and rancid heart are aids in your destruction – contributors to the hatred geared towards devastating a once pure-enough soul. You feel too much and attach importance to it which creates a completely unfounded sense of entitlement. You mean nothing. Learn control and know yourself.

Understand how little you mean to the world and recognize your nothingness.

What I despise

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Self-loathing has become a norm. I sit wondering how I myself am able to tolerate something so putrid and vile. A soul so dark that it repels its possessor. It wreaks havoc in innocent lives and creates chaos. How romantic. Stirrings within crises as its main motivation – and so it creates and manifests everything broken and unsavoury. It somehow prefers to blossom within the realms of abuse and destruction because it follows the sole instruction to endure and survive. It grows through only harsh reminders and a few broken bones. It doesn’t quiver under threats of violence. It begs for more. However, circumstances are not always conducive to its growth. How amusing. You cannot thrive and dominate within the realms of peace and harmony, my dear. It needs to be reminded of its nothingness; of its emptiness. Because on its own accord, it chooses to change; to grow.

Addicted to the thrill of despair, it is a chaos-creator – show me more pain; hurt me, break me; unearth me. Kill me. Attracted to parasitic demons who live off the lives of the vulnerable and angels of death, more cousins of Satan and the like. A damaged soul – a parasite itself; nourished, revitalized only by those pleading eyes which occupy only the most tortured bodies. Hurt me. Your weakness is my power.

Cry.

Bleed.

Beg.

It pleases such a soul to see you so destroyed – so wonderfully shattered. Tell me of your pain. Tell me how you wish to feel peace again.

Your inner peace is nothing.

Your inner peace means nothing.

Offer your tortured soul and sacrifice yourself for the good of those who honour and uplift their own destruction.

Peace is nothing.

Self-loathing. A soul so deviant and crushed – putrid and repellant.

My own.

The Meeting of Souls

tumblr_nbhy0anwcp1rizz8go1_250December 25, 2016

Letter from my Love

Here we are again.

As before; my heart yearns for a forever, fuelled by the burn of our electric dynamism, and her soul hankers at the seams of my clarity & ease… Her impatience worries me, it reminds me of her birth given warrant to command the elements and atoms of all, as she finds desirable. Thus; her push for what she can only see as a simpler path to my happiness, although selfless of her, throws me into the pits of a jealous wind uprooting the forest of what is old & sacred. I will not be forgotten. So, I fight it. I fight her. Because I want to. I will breathe tsunamis through the earth and crash thunderstorms upon the Sun before I let her go.

I insist she is patient. I reassure her of my love. I remind her of my loyalty. I calm her with my time. & at last, she listens.

I never thought I could fall further or harder than I did in the distant memory of starlight warming a rooftop which overlooked an ocean… but it seems that since; I have leaped off of that roof and dove butt naked into that ocean… Now I find myself engulfed in her once again, a lone drop in her ocean, floating through her tide, drifting on her current and drowning in the depths of her cosmic latte.

I belong.

Our journey led to an explosion of colour. And now it is I who exudes impatience. But it is only because I have never been more certain of her… she has given all of herself to me for the first time, physically & emotionally… It is my first real taste of companionship’s ecstasy. For me it is the opening of the unexplored, and a voyage through the novelty of uncharted love.

For the first time in my life; I know what we have. I know why we have it. I know that it is shared between us. I know that there is only one of its kind & I know that it can only belong to us. In fact; I believe. In her. & In us. She had me the day she gave a 13-year-old kid a cigarette under a suburban autumn, and she has me now.

Nicotine.

She controls my mind and my movements like a mantis portraying inferiority in order to encourage its opponents advance. And although I fear a familiar and destructive heartache; I would have it no other way. I have decided to make room for the moment, and in that space, we will do what we have always said cannot be done. Together we will subsist through the storm, our mirth will drown out the thunder & our electricity will make the lightning flinch as the heavens cower before our divine and eternal love.

What was once a toast to forbidden desire, beautiful and broken; now intends its raised glass to a new year. With you.

 

The Insecure Self

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The insecure self is the part of every being that manifests almost mostly in the presence of the other.Perhaps it begins in our awkward and uncomfortable pubescent years. Almost every being exists as a literal vessel of insecurity and mess. Perhaps beings are comforted by the thought that there is a possibility that the Insecure Self will simmer down as they age. But what does that mean? Validation through some of the most toxic relationships we will encounter? Freely handing out our sex to anyone that will have it?

The subconscious self. Every being has the most exclusive access to subconscious thoughts. What self-love dictates is that we cherish our minds wholly: consciously and subconsciously; that we are able to face our own darkness – shamelessly – and fearlessly. The insecure self is then manifested through allowing access to others. Its growth is dependent on the development of the fear that through allowing access to the other, complete and absolute control is relinquished – the insecure self is handed to the other: the fear dictates that our own darkness will be manipulated and controlled by someone other than the self. Perhaps the reality, in the absence of cynicism, is that we hand ourselves over to the other with the pure intention of healing.

My insecure, subconscious, and conscious self would never allow that. The reason is pure and entirely simplistic – pride. Pride tends to form a large part of the Stronger Self. It defends and protects fearlessly and doubtlessly because although a being may seem transparent, pride renders the soul opaque. Pride instructs that we do not give away too much of ourselves – this sickens and casts disappointment over the soul. Pride is of an extremely complex nature.

A nature such as mine allows me to see through even the most opaque soul. The other may drone on extensively about what a guarded soul he possesses. However, the Guarded Self almost instantaneously allows the other access once loved. Weakness. This creates the premise that pride forms a large part of the Stronger Self. Love is then our Weaker Selves.

Love blinds and disguises. It does not form part of the Insecure Self – however, the loss of it does. When loved, beings develop the Vulnerable Self – the unreasonable, irrational self. It causes the soul to soften tremendously. But pride prevents access to the Insecure Self. It protects us from the Vulnerable Self. It reminds beings of resilience and pure strength. It teaches the soul to harden and repair itself. It treats the being as a temple and builds it higher.

By virtue of this, then, is pride the opposite of love?