I want you to trace your blade across my abdomen, warm breath in my ear when you whisper, “I’m sorry baby, this is the only way I know to put those butterflies in your stomach”.
I wonder what sort of place you’d make for them in your belly? Would your body be a butterfly womb or a butterfly tomb?
It’s easy to prove you love me.
Just say “thank you” when I’m done.
So I don’t like being eaten out and I don’t actually like being cuddled that much either…
One of my favorite games to play with a girl is Personal Space Invader. It involves randomly hip-checking her into walls, guiding her through a restaurant with a grip on the back of her neck, messing with her clothes or hair in front of people, and making a special point of poking, biting, and otherwise sullying every part of her body that she’d prefer to keep to herself.
It occurs to me that the experience must be like having an annoying older brother… who occasionally strips you naked and feeds you his semen.
Number of times per week she tells me “that’s not helping!”: at least five.
Number of times per week I’m actually trying to help: something close to zero.
It’s ever a challenge, to be good enough at being nothing. To purge yourself of the fanciful delusion that your existence should be more than simply existing. To excise from your bloated, diseased expectations all sense of value, of purpose, of desert. To burn away everything within you that isn’t a desperate, grasping hole of singular and base purpose.
But with determination and a hateful cock, anything is possible.
Look at you, trussed up like an animal, painted like a whore, soaked in filth. It’s so obvious, but you’re too fucking deluded to see it.
When a man has to go to this much effort to make you interesting, you have a problem. You’re just not enough for him. Can’t you sense it? You’re not pretty enough. You’re not clever enough. You’re not sweet enough. You’re not so many things that it’s hard to say what you actually are; your only definition is in your deficiency. You are a living, breathing manifestation of negative space.
I blame your upbringing. Too many people have told you to “just be yourself,” without recognizing how very low they were setting the bar. They’ve given you an awkward, delusional scrap of pride, one to which you cling like a tattered kite in a storm; you hold on like an idiot, dreaming that one day –if only you believe enough– it will finally lift your feet off the ground and carry you away.
Stupid girl. Let go of the string; your place will always be in the dirt.
After twenty years of considering the evidence and searching my soul, I’ve decided to change my position on one of the key cultural questions of my young adulthood.
No, they were not on a break.
Really? So how are you going to convince me to do that?
It’s kind of a big ask, if you think about it. I mean, to ruin your life would mean alienating you from your loved ones, wrecking your ambitions and potential, weakening your body, and permanently disrupting your ability to feel unconditional love… that’s a lot of work, and a lot of responsibility.
After I’ve picked you apart and abandoned whatever remains, what’s to stop me from feeling the occasional twinge of guilt? I’m a functional, mildly empathetic human being, after all; to feel good about destroying something, I’d need to know it had no intrinsic value. You’d need to be so worthless as a girl that your destruction would be the moral equivalent of doing a controlled burn of a parched and wasted forest.
Do you have it in you to make that case? To be honest, I’m skeptical.
But I’m willing to be surprised.
her: Sorry about the mouth-slobber on the bottle.
me: Mouth-slobber? As opposed to what? Is there another type of slobber I might encounter?
her: I knew I shouldn’t have phrased it that way. I knew it.
me: Stop threatening me with your mysterious lady-drippings.
In no particular order (apart from I/D who is my no. 1 fav): @intersectdisconnect, @brat-grrrrl2, @bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls, @babycunt + @deadlittleslut (same person) and @inductionofautosadism2.
It’s always sweet to be appreciated by a connoisseur.
