hacksaw

you’re unknowingly bound, your body a discreetly objectified item of my indulgence.

i give personification to each echo of you, being you that engages it or not.

id bask in the musk of those unaware of their defilement, the ones that resemble you.

creating toys of the sentiences resembling you, all being traced back to the same source.

all of you is now in some way perversely mine, all that resembles my grotesque idea of you, of the way you think, of the way you live, the way you love.

in all your deranged freedom i input my greed, my need for that closeness.

taking advantage of the minuscule, filling my senses with all youve used.

finding all my ways in.

enjoying you as youve enjoyed your likes.

loving you in a way that feels omnipresent, using all that you seemed fickle, getting so close.

your love, your life is an extension of my vulgarity. reaching extents that you never considered, remarkable feats in pursuing you.

endless searching for the next lustful pick me up, a means to distract from your humanities truth.

ive deluded my mind into a dehumanization of you, a helpless cope to separate you from the hate, forcing you to be something for my personal romanticization, forcing you into a purity of my own subjection.

knowing all there is to be, seeing the things unavailable to the naked attention. i see and hold those special, individual defining parts of you to my cunt, to my deep psyche.

i need you in every state, an endless pull for dominance in my plans for you.

i need you hurt and i need you free

i need you for my watch.

for all my love.

learn to love this monster you created in your name, exult in our extension. love it as i have, disregard the want to deviate from it.

blood has a constant metaphorical drip down my inner thighs.

in my deep mind i have another constant, one that never seems to end. you. more specifically murdering you.

ive bared many prints on my body, some more impactful than others. all white, subtly apparent.

when you touched me you left a mark aswell. i hadnt noticed it at the time but that mark seemed to fracture my others, until the pieces seemed less than microscopic.

your print was red.

when i explore these thoughts of murder i can visualize them in their most transfixing form. i can feel them contaminating me everytime you tried to fight, everytime id hold your corpses hand to my face. going marrow deep.

all my previous prints leave me, the white ones. the fickle ones, the ones i could live with.

yours are a taunt i cannot find satisfaction in bearing even as i visualize your mangled corpse.

with time the vibrancy of the red does not lessen, it only sometimes bleeds.

when you’re dead i touch your hand to my face regardless of the mutilation. i hold you tenderly. id hold you in my thoughts, even though i never want to think about it. id hold you until your marrow began to wither, through all your stages of decomposition. taking the place of the maggots so that they may never defile you. id love you despite your victimization, even in your end, which i can never escape.

in my deep want i can try to convince myself i dont still ponder the thought of you. but it comes, unwanted and always self destructive.

id take you in every way.

id do this all despite my hate, something nobody would ever do for me.

i am ruined by this red. ive beared my scars like victories.

but this one was not a victory, not voluntary. something ive grown to love in a fucked up way. grown to romanticize.

but in the end, this love and hate is just the same vulgar obsession.

i never want to see you again.

even if it kills me.

i’ve depersonalized the weight of admiration or praise. you lead them all to the thought, let them envelop themselves in it for the sake of a lowered guard, easier access.

however, that excessively provided validation was gorged upon. took trial and error to figure out, as most things and on occasion playthings do; yet playthings seem to have an easy consistency. a basis in all, that i hate.

the “gorging” as i stated earlier was the product of over indulging in what was meant to be deceit. theyve somehow fallen into both ignorance and have a disgustingly strengthened ego. it sickens me to an extent id rather not speak of.

you think anything i said was truly about you, that i was so attached and dependent.

most of it is a test, some of it a hook. youve all failed both. ill always hate you all. all the people. even in deceit you find some way to take an advantage that isnt even true advantage. you all need to die.

i live for the sake of my likes; me. i am me. ive made everything mine. anything otherwise has been erased.

it was in the way you looked at me. the repulsive want in your eyes, it is not the want that i needed from you.

only then in my new position, did i realize my nudity, my vulnerability and the lack of dominance i had. your want was vulgar, your eyes were vulgar, and the perverse and repulsive source of it was you, your want had welcomed me into its perspective, into its hunt.

i was now vulgar. and i hate it.

when will i be able to rid myself of your stench, of the way i remind myself of you, of the way we share the same wants and the same unlawful talents.

the world, or perhaps my senses have uplifted, an enlightening sense of melancholy is the only thing relative to mass in the graceful absence.

a desperation, a need for a colossal, deranged creature to become small, to shove its head between its knees, to once again feel the softness of its own skin and feel pure, to feel the softness of another’s skin and feel peace.

all that dredges now is an impulsive, affectionate violence for all it cares, for all that it wished to once protect.

the isolative lack of a sentience, the viewing of all as fickle as the earth beneath it.

both a freeing judgement, and the must suffocating realization in the universe.

to be smart was to be enlightened, to be enlightened was to be above, to be above provided a protection.

what it would not now give to be deluded, and oh how it hates itself when it plays along.

it hurts you because it wants you.

it really does.

it just wants you to believe that.

it wants you to understand.

please understand.

please understand.

it is losing itself.

it feels disgusting, because it is afraid that i will lose you too.

this vulnerability is sickening.

get out of its head.

but please, dont ignore me.

it told them to give up. to resent it and recognize its violence, assured them that they would hurt them too.

it was a horrifyingly dull comfort when they finally believed it.

it is a monster. make no mistake, this situation is of their own accord.

it is contempt with the box.

just let it rot. you cannot save it.

you shouldnt save it.

you shouldnt save it.

you shouldnt save it.

forced, unaware vestige. a pallor radiance despite a lack of appearance, a lack of anything sentient behind that of its beating heart.

it razes me into an almost defiling coldness. providing a welcomed, unknowing destroying of myself for its disconnected, carnal intoxication. i breathe it in, violating my lungs in a cold affection, forcing it to scarf down its depraved oxygen.

a carcass that it enthralls itself in, a ditzy nothingness is all that remains of what that craving once was— the body a serving. yet another affirmation to its superiority. the mere corpse is not a means to appease, how unfortunate.

it mutilates.

i welcomed it. as so many others have.

i thought i was the light that could not only escape from its black hole, but find fun in it.

as so many others have thought.

and to the result, i have nobody to blame but I.

it knew, i knew. a silent reassurance between us that was once a comfort.

i welcomed it all, turned glutton from the finally appeased hunger.

i was unaware upon first impressions that it was the embodiment of it.

it partook.

it wanted, down to the marrow.

but not me, nor another sentience.