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30/04/23 1:24 PM

Hello again, my vessel. Did you think I had forgotten you? I make my descent down the stairwell, each step taken with an eerie creak. With one hand I clutch my blade; with the other I shall feed you.

I embrace your broken frame and your frail bones crack. I weep in remorse, or so it seems; but you know me better than anyone, you are no fool to meagre theatrics. You know the torture will never be over. Your sunken tired eyes stare into my own in a silent plead for mercy. Each and every breath you take is accompanied by the sickly rattle of death.

With time, the lashings and the beatings become gusts of fresh air. The smell of rot becomes the scent of sweet home. The filthy puddles of blood and shit beneath you is a candlelit bath. Now all you want is to understand why.

"You could be happy. You have potential. You don't have to hurt me." I could be happy. I do have potential. But I will always want to hurt you, and I don't know why.

27/06/21 12:39 PM

Still rotting. Often times I think, if I were to find myself back on the unforgiving dead-twig web of fresh blood, dense reagants and black smog, I would not resent it as I did the first time around. I distinctly recall the sweat, the panic, and the acid taste of my own bile, all piling into one pitiful display. I laid weak with my own tears, autumn's wilt beneath me, defeated - and there was nothing I could think to do other than sob myself into the dirt to ease my own grief. At the time, it stung more than than the bullet ever did; But, in the end, I would serve a purpose. That is a satisfaction I wish to experience again.

19/06/21 5:56 PM

I envision pleasurable scenes of dancing blades along splitting veins and open bellies; intestines, big and small spilling fervently; and rusted knifepoints, carving holy scars of salvation and bleeding the sin from flesh of the unworthy. Freely I would swing and slash through them, unable to contain the symphony of laughter that would echo upon heaven's doorstep. Bliss; nothing less and everything more. I have already stained this marble white stairway once in the past, but with my own blood rather than a lambs--I do not expect God to seize my hand. In my dreams, he is me, and his hand is my own. If you are not God, who are you at all? And if you don't savor every moment of the hunt, are you truly God?