while still standing in front of me drunk. Demented with rage, your fear turned to loathing. Accusing me of perpetrating the crimes you only wish you had committed. Dredging through the dregs of my ancient history like an inquisitorial archeologist sifting the sand drifts of all eternity for evidence of my corruption, which in turn you claim has corrupted you. But you came to me contaminated, and I admit it has perverted your ability to reason.
You force an instant replay of the gruesome details of my own life which I can no longer even recall. The high court of your false morality condemns me to the spiral Touretteâs of your self-righteous judgment, where I stand forever convicted as the deviant criminal you secretly wish you were.
You insisted my passion was self-serving and hedonistic. My power fascist in nature. My fluidity a ruse to infiltrate. My beauty a curse I used against others to bend them to my will, using my sex to manipulate addiction. My strength was alien. My ability to live outside the disappointing constraints of the worldâs corrosive stranglehold, fraudulently utopian. My belief in the ability to overcome trauma, proof I was ignorant of your immense and catastrophic pain. The burden of which saints you as martyr, paints me as sinner, and worships at the foot of a false god whose cruelty I can no longer play victim to.
You forced me to play witness to your madness, pounding on temples, smashing in cheekbones, pummeling your beautiful face into a vile monstrosity, until I could no longer look at you. Claiming it retaliation against the living ghosts that haunt you. But you are only haunting yourself. Stalking yourself. Murdering your self. And your death cannot come quick enough. Your protracted slow-motion suicide plays itself out in an endless loop of predictable repetition, a low-budget circus side show steeped in horror which feeds on an audience of one who can no longer afford the admission.
Your death will be more satisfying, more complete, more honest and right than the torture your chronic demise forces me to suffer through. You shat on everything I am, everything I offered you. You have insulted my gifts with a barbarism of unparalleled brutality from which I have now become immune. I extended to you a refuge, a stay of execution, respite. You bombarded my safe haven with chaos, confusion, and a grandiose self-pity which bordered on megalomania, robbing me of everything I once held sacred.
And I canât wait for you to tighten the noose, to pull the fucking trigger, shove the knife far enough inside you that not only do you sever the artery connecting your life to mine, but you snuff out your own life once and for all. Because if you donât kill yourself, I will be forced to kill you.
Beautiful liar. Blood-sucking junkie. Baby-faced killer. Serial rapist. Lecherous pedophile. Thief, con, crook, cunt. Derelict bastard cock-sucking cunt slut. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. You fuck.
DEAD MAN
T he Dead Man slowly rises from the sand pit crawling on all fours out from under forty feet of dry rust. He musters the strength of dead men everywhere who supply him with just enough false energy to pick himself up, dust himself off, and collapse against me. His dead weight crushes me, obliterating all feeling. Squashing sensation. Deadening the senses. Dulling reason. My breath slows. Breathing barely enough to supply oxygen to the brain. Pulse slows, skids, stops. I am paralyzed. I flatline. Time dies. I disappear. Reappear.
I stand directly before him whitewashed by steam heat rippling in off the desert floor. I am merely a mirage, his mirage, which he sees through yet refuses to acknowledge. He fills my body forcing expansion. Occupies every inch of skin and sinew as if I have swallowed an inflatable Death doll. Toxic pressure expands my flesh. He slurs, a sandy murmur, indecipherable and droll. Rocks his head just enough to draw his eyes down. His vision, like a desert rat,
You force an instant replay of the gruesome details of my own life which I can no longer even recall. The high court of your false morality condemns me to the spiral Touretteâs of your self-righteous judgment, where I stand forever convicted as the deviant criminal you secretly wish you were.
You insisted my passion was self-serving and hedonistic. My power fascist in nature. My fluidity a ruse to infiltrate. My beauty a curse I used against others to bend them to my will, using my sex to manipulate addiction. My strength was alien. My ability to live outside the disappointing constraints of the worldâs corrosive stranglehold, fraudulently utopian. My belief in the ability to overcome trauma, proof I was ignorant of your immense and catastrophic pain. The burden of which saints you as martyr, paints me as sinner, and worships at the foot of a false god whose cruelty I can no longer play victim to.
You forced me to play witness to your madness, pounding on temples, smashing in cheekbones, pummeling your beautiful face into a vile monstrosity, until I could no longer look at you. Claiming it retaliation against the living ghosts that haunt you. But you are only haunting yourself. Stalking yourself. Murdering your self. And your death cannot come quick enough. Your protracted slow-motion suicide plays itself out in an endless loop of predictable repetition, a low-budget circus side show steeped in horror which feeds on an audience of one who can no longer afford the admission.
Your death will be more satisfying, more complete, more honest and right than the torture your chronic demise forces me to suffer through. You shat on everything I am, everything I offered you. You have insulted my gifts with a barbarism of unparalleled brutality from which I have now become immune. I extended to you a refuge, a stay of execution, respite. You bombarded my safe haven with chaos, confusion, and a grandiose self-pity which bordered on megalomania, robbing me of everything I once held sacred.
And I canât wait for you to tighten the noose, to pull the fucking trigger, shove the knife far enough inside you that not only do you sever the artery connecting your life to mine, but you snuff out your own life once and for all. Because if you donât kill yourself, I will be forced to kill you.
Beautiful liar. Blood-sucking junkie. Baby-faced killer. Serial rapist. Lecherous pedophile. Thief, con, crook, cunt. Derelict bastard cock-sucking cunt slut. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. You fuck.
DEAD MAN
T he Dead Man slowly rises from the sand pit crawling on all fours out from under forty feet of dry rust. He musters the strength of dead men everywhere who supply him with just enough false energy to pick himself up, dust himself off, and collapse against me. His dead weight crushes me, obliterating all feeling. Squashing sensation. Deadening the senses. Dulling reason. My breath slows. Breathing barely enough to supply oxygen to the brain. Pulse slows, skids, stops. I am paralyzed. I flatline. Time dies. I disappear. Reappear.
I stand directly before him whitewashed by steam heat rippling in off the desert floor. I am merely a mirage, his mirage, which he sees through yet refuses to acknowledge. He fills my body forcing expansion. Occupies every inch of skin and sinew as if I have swallowed an inflatable Death doll. Toxic pressure expands my flesh. He slurs, a sandy murmur, indecipherable and droll. Rocks his head just enough to draw his eyes down. His vision, like a desert rat,
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