W.ILL

“NOBODY TALKS TO ME, I ONLY TALK TO I.”

-> Will / Vile

-> 19 , It/He

-> Transsexual , Queer

-> Mentally unwell

Block don’t report

Necrophilic masochist who’s fucked up in the head.

“AND IVE BEEN TELLING MYSELF ALL DAY…”

I post about being a paraphile , being mentally unwell , and fantasies or thoughts that come into my head.

The warnings for my content are as follows . . .

-> Necrophilia , masochism , self harm , amputation , kidnapping , death , gore , forcemasculinaztion , (NOT REAL) sadism towards big dogs/canine like creatures , venting , intrusive thoughts , trauma , fetishization of my mental issues , perverted behavior , t4t nastiness , polyamorous tendencies , flirting , torture , and … thats lowkey it.

“SHES GOTTA DIE.”

“Confess.”

Every time he speaks, I have to confess a sin.

I am not very biblical. My words get caught in my throat, Im more focused on the knife drawing across my skin every time I do.

“I don’t know what to say.”

Wrong answer, my flesh is split open, theres a small puddle of blood at my feet, clotting on the underside of my arm, dripping and sticky.

“Yes you do, come on. I’m the one you worship. Tell your God all your wrong doings.”

It’s an unfair thing, sitting in his lap, legs hooked over his, wrist out and visible. The sweet, iron rich smell of blood fills the confessional booth.

“Come on, mutt. The longer you take, the longer we will stay.”

You are a god.

I am the loyal follower, devoting myself to you.

I don’t believe in a higher power, but I believe in you.

I will do as you say when you say it, just look at you. You’re so much better than I—of course you’re my god.

I will show you what it feels like to be worshipped. To have the ground you walk on be what gives me life.

You have given me purpose. Now allow me to exploit it.

It was gross bht that was sort of it. Though at level 20 it was a .. murder video i think. I just watched and it just kept going. And going. It was boring.

Felt bad for the girl cleaning this guys dick cheese, now THAT is disgusting.

I stare at myself in the mirror, stomach pressing into the lip of the counter, I am eyeing my neck. Tracing even bump, ride and stretch along the skin, watching the slight lump in my throat move when I swallow.

The blade I hold feels larger than it actually is, I can feel my voice box practically.

This is not a good place to cut.

But I cannot help myself, and exhale when I draw the blade across my neck. This is not suicide, it is art. It is adrenaline, it is me dancing on the edge of mortality, knowing that if I just listened to the call of death I would follow.

I do not obey, instead it feels better to remind myself of my meat suit. Another inch of skin, dripping red.