Destitute of passion, I write from inspiration.

I’ll let it pour out like warm expressive pus.

I had a rather amorous encounter once, twice, three times. Once that shaped me especially. It wasn’t love at first sight, he stole my attention the same way a peculiar figure would steal my eye in a shopping centre. Of course unlike a peculiar figure, I had classes with him almost every day. I’d observe him subtly during class, first with quick glances to assess his appearance: A unique taste in fashion, a confident, slightly overemphasised strut, blonde hair, slim with a very slight build. I would enjoy running my eyes up and down his body, eventually too much to keep it brief, so he would often catch me.

First conversation was brief, something about the teacher. We shared a common amusement in his wild tangents. I think he had some idea of my attraction towards him, as he spoke with a dominant confidence. First date was my idea. It went well though my heart did do a number on my ribcage. He hid behind a cup of coffee to try and keep himself dominant, it worked. Later that night we lost our inhibitions and broke walls. About a week later he seemed quiet around me, his face slipped, it’s happened before. The second weekend he stayed over he spat bad poetry into my lips and I felt a year pass between us. He wrote me a letter. I wrote him a song, with a beat for every day my Facebook status had his name in it.

The whole ordeal was a role reversal for me. The one before him, a girl who fell in love with me, was my amusement for her turmoil. She lied more than once before I stole her inhibitions and forced her to confess. That night I stole her innocence and experienced my first taste of empty pleasure. I confessed to her friend the day after. They’re no longer friends. I came back to her after every unsuccessful pursuit, and she was hopeless to my charm. I tore at her flesh with hooks and devoured her. She would tear at others in retaliation because she wouldn’t dream of harming me. When there was nothing left for me to devour, I left her to soak in alcohol and tobacco stained tongues. She searched for me often, crying every time I wouldn’t stand to face her. She tried to take the hook into her own hands once or twice, eventually admitted to an asylum. She was no longer a problem for me to deal with.

Such decrepit actions were unavoidable. My scarred flesh will heal and so will hers. Maybe he will never be harmed… but I doubt it. The world doesn’t lean one way for too long before it falls. You can’t keep all that flesh forever. Where would he keep it?

"I wanted all things
To seem to make some sense,
So we could all be happy, yes,
Instead of tense.
And I made up lies
So that they all fit nice,
And I made this sad world
A par-a-dise."