BLACK DECEMBER
2007
T H E - B A N E - O F - M Y - L I F E

LETTER 1.
FUCK?

I fucked and sodomized her. I'm in love with her. I'm in love with her perfectly tight little fucking asshole!
I'm in charge here. You are the distraction. You are the preoccupation. I am the liar, the dedicated, and the one between your fucking legs while hard up inside of you right fucking now!
I push the alpha and you obey. You take whatever I force upon you and you actually believe you want more. Beg for more. On all fours and submitting. Hurt yourself for me. But don't just fucking try and kill yourself. You will do exactly what I want, all the fucking way, or get the fuck out of my sight!
Think what you like. Reduce yourself to base functions. Practice what I preach, and when I say, come here, you better drop and give me your well worn orifices with a puckered-up pout on your sewer-eye. And you sure as hell better make me fucking believe it!
I fucked and sodomized her. And she loves me for it. She loves the way I fucking hate her and eat her tiny tidy cunt till she cums again like just another fucking rape-victim!
Secret sodomy and envious insinuations from jealous sisters. Yeah, I'm a sucker, a cock, and a stupid motherfucker. I'll acknowledge your arguments and I'll back you up, watching over your shoulder blades while you faceplant the fucking floor. My grotesque delights reach further down your hairless holes and pretty young mouth stretched as wide as your rectum is sealed about my ever so good intentions. I didn't mean to hurt you deep inside your colon. I didn't want to make you get so attached to my penetrations. I didn't know you were so easily fucked-up over getting fucked up your ass. Your flesh can heal, so fucking take it like a bitch, you fucking malleable meat!
Yeah, yeah. It was your idea. You wanted it this way. It's your favorite position. Face-down, legs wide, my whole body-weight balls-deep up your cheeks. It's not your first time. It's not comfortable. But you want to make me happy. Take it slow. Hands on your throat. Lube it up. Slip it in. Further and faster. Breathe harder. Take it all the way. You will get used to this. It gets easier. Relax and push back. Tell yourself I give a fuck if you're enjoying yourself. Tell me you love it. Tell me to cum in your anus so I can leave a little part of me in your filthy shit-hole of a worthless fucking existence!
1, 9, or 360. What's the difference? Never quite the same but all exactly identical to the insertion. Assholes, cunts, and tongues. Take this. Take this all. You know you fucking need it. Yes, I adore you for your apprehensive obedience. Yes, I respect you and your precious blood loss. Yes, you are ever so important to me with your chickenshit, piss-weak self-esteem. No, I'm lying. Now spread your ass again and shut the fuck up. No, I'm kidding. You really are the one and only I jerk-off over. Yeah, no, I'm lying again. I can't fucking stand your god-awful fucking voice – except when you're frantically telling me not to fucking stop!
I fucked and sodomized her. Her body on my body. My flesh in her flesh. But we two are not one. This carnal-calculation is inaccurate to the core of her cunt. She may be an alpha, but I only fuck her omega!
Line 'em up, shoot 'em down. On a leash, she is the bitch on heat as I am the dog on her two-faced insecurities. Double-chamber double-penetration for her false pretense that are foreplay before the foreplay of her doubled-up sexual digestions. Swallows, complains, offers, resists, she never wants the complications that will occur if someone else finds out about us. About what we're doing. What I'm doing to her. And so many other little girls. Girls with curiosities. A touch of eager perversity and her best friend watching from the other side of the room. Come join in, walk away, do whatever the fuck you like, but I hope you do taste what I plant in your crop of peaches and suggestibility, or I'll toss your inexperienced ass out on the pile with the rest of those I discard like so much latex and body fluids! You're not the only one to call me an 'idiot' tonight!
Look at me with that ever so sincere glare. Stare me down. Try and reach that soul behind my discolored eyes. Sniff my ear and lick my throat. Blink away only to look right back at what I'm watching. Do you see it? Do you know what I'm after? Don't fucking kid yourself, bitch!
Don't tell, but I'm utterly I love with you. Your fucking ass when its clenched down upon my hard-on!
I fucked and sodomized her. And she's ever so fucking special to me. Got her on her knees. Inside her and making head way. But every hole I sink into holds no answers. There is absolutely nothing within her but what I leave. Maybe my knife will open her up so my cock can finally fuck her up once and for fucking all!
If good intentions pave the route to hell, then all the pain I cause you should get me closer to the pearly gates beneath your tiny dress. But let's face it. Hurting you is all I fucking need to put a smile on my fucking face. To cheat and to never be cheated? It's an easy enough fantasy. Like finding how deep your rectum really is. I know your cunt ends at your garden of abortions, but at what point does your shit-hole fill with that bullshit spilling out of your mouth? If I push on in, can I push right on through? Can I punch past the sewer of your gutless guts and anorexic-conspiracies, and reach right up into the belly of your beast? Can you stomach what I have to put inside your malignant cavities? Can I even force you wider, stretch and tear my fingers all the fucking way up and out of your gaping lips just to hold your fucking tongue?!
I know you're a doll and I'm an old dog. Yeah, I know I have a problem letting go. Yeah, I fucking know I left you to rot, and yet I still give a damn about where you park your mouth. I told you what I want from you, the ugly consequences that can never be allowed to see the light of day. I know your body is a temple, but mine is the devil's and he wants what's under your pillow. Don't ask what you already know I'm thinking, for fuck's sake. I can help you with your problems. I can make this mess worse than the childish nonsense you call hard-times. Come on, you know I can play those games you pretend to know all about. Don't you want to get fucked up? Don't you want to know what a bad fucking day really fucking feels like? You fucking know you need scum like me to give you something to bitch about. I'm the mistake that will build you some character. You will hate me but learn that I made you smarter. No, that's a crock of pigshit. I don't give a fuck what you become. I'm only interested in your obedience right fucking now. Tomorrow or in five years you can become a tortured artist, but right here, you're the pound of flesh I owe myself for tolerating you and your fucking kind every fucking day of my fucking life!
How important am I to you? But how do I know that you're not just lying to me? Telling me what you reckon I get off on hearing. You want what I want. Yet how do I really know that you're not lying to my face once again? Lying to get whatever the fuck you're after in this fucking abomination of a relationship of broken consistencies. What the fuck are you seriously getting out of this? This sure as shit ain't about happiness. Oh, that's right. We are nothing but 'friends'. And then you tell me again how I'm still more important than any other piece of shit on this planet. Fuck that, tell me I'm more fucking important than every fuck that ever was or will be. Fucking tell it to me. Tell it to me when we fuck. When we're alone. When I'm inside your fucking body and all its worldly fucking beauty. Tell me when you cum. Tell me I'm more important to you than yourself. Tell it to me when I fucking cum. Tell me that you want to have my unwanted fucking children. Tell me that shit when I fucking sodomize you, so I can laugh about it later when you're on the toilet!
I fucked and sodomized her. I would like to keep her a while longer, but she will leave, and I will leave, and all I am left with are her bruises on my skin. I wasn't her first and I sure wont be her fucking last. But next time I fuck her, I might get her to renounce her past and leave me some evidence of her faith in me. Her head in a fucking jar will do the trick nicely!

LETTER 2.
WE'RE WHAT?

I leave an impression on her. A cut in her cunt and mess on her mommy's sheets. This was never about you. This is about your superficiality and your pretty fucking mouth. Open up but not too much. I want to force you apart and feel you resist the intervention of your meek spaces against my intolerance toward your presumptuous expression of second-nature-delusions-of-grandeur. You are no better than what I bend you over. The object of my affections is in the silhouette of your hips and thighs. The table on its knees. The bed in the shower. The sauna of your car. Get on top, spread them further, clench down, and grit your fucking teeth. You know you fucking love it when your head is pinned against the corner. Get a grip and make sure your footing is steadfast. Go on, do it again. Cum again, and when you try and catch your breath, tell me to slip it in once again. I won't apologize for my biology. I will not tone it down for your inexperience. I ain't going to stop till I fucking figure out what it is exactly I fucking want to steal from your naked dens. Maybe it's your submission. Maybe it's your belligerence. Maybe I just want to see what your lips look like when I get you to do what you said you would never ever fucking try. Or perhaps I only want to piss on your tits while you sleep, just so I can bask in the glory of your utter disfiguration. Slowly. Quietly. Subtly. In the dark of your closed eyes. In the curiosity of your turned back. In the safety of my arms, is where you don’t mind where I might go. Tasting your old sweat, I ignore your inflections. But I am with another even though you thought I was such a trustworthy son of a bitch. But then you're back again, and my fingers roll over your priceless little xxx-whatever-spot. You're breathing unconsciously hard. Your back is pressed against my methodical chest. We’re moving in the tides of your acceleration. You're a nickel-plated 357, and all I need is my fingertip to drop a bombshell on your bonfire. You're cycles hold no mystery. Bleed all over me. I won't hide the savagery that you beat into my skin with so much desperation behind your grimace. And then when I place my question-mark upon your steamed and boiled #2, you swallow me whole with a thirst you never hoped to reveal. All of you. Inside of you. I love everything about you – apart from you!
I leave an impression on her. It's been over a year and even longer for some, yet she can't get past the influence I left a few inches too deep down her still moistened ass. How the eyelids flinch. This is truth. This is not. This is not for my eyes and yet my eyes only. I don’t need to see you to know what your shit tastes like. Tell me it's best we don’t get involved. Remind me, as you knock on my door and suck me off, how you're really not interested at all. And here I thought you were such a clever little fucking bitch. Yes, yes, I must be the fucked-up one here. I got then obsession issues, I'm the control-freak trying to monopolize the situation. But just 'cause I want to tie you up and then fuck you with a length of electrical cable, doesn’t mean you're the holy ghost to me. So I promised not to be late, but that still doesn't guarantee you shit. You know how I get off on getting you to fuck yourself ten ways from Sunday, and then photograph it for me. Yet what the fuck makes you make-believe that I ain't getting your six other sisters to do commit another deadly sin every other day of the fucking week? Your goddamned right, I'll 'see' you again. Never say no to a hungry, grade-A fucking cunt. But don’t fucking cling to my collar bones like some sodomized catholic school girl. I got shit to do. I ain't interested in your bitch-boy-collection. Go find some other little fagot to be your devout dipshit wet-nurse. Just 'cause you shave and save your anal orifice for my six-shooter, doesn’t mean it smells any sweeter by any other name. But let's cut the shit. You're just a fucking bitch. I don't give a fuck what happens to your sorry ass once I boot you out that fucking door. Get hit by a train. Fuck off. Whatever, you useless sack of pig shit. You don't mean jack-shit to me. I'd slit your fucking throat, except then I'd have to put up with all your stinking fucking shit ruining my carpet. And you ain't worth the stain remover. So I'll fuck your sweet ass and slap you about till you scream like a drunken dog, but then I'll replace you next time I lie to your face again. Or are you a different little little-girl? I meant that other one. Not you. Or was it? Fuck, I can't tell anymore. You're all the fucking same. Fucking bitches. Full of shit. Nothing special. Nothing but meat on a stick. Yeah, that's fucking right, I did mean my dick, you smart-ass fucking cunt!
I leave an impression on her. But all I'm left with is another naked whore in the slaughter-house of my moral core!
I left an impression on her. And now it's over. You sure as shit won't see me begging you to come back. You won't get me on my fucking knees and pleading my best justifications. I'm done with you played devil's advocate, you precious little fucking diamond of shit!
I leave an impression on her. She says I'm a bad influence on her aspiring potential ready to face such that big old world of innocent possibilities for her to get raped by. Says that I can't be trusted. Gee, what a shock. So fuck off then. Yeah, yeah, you say I'm not that bad, that you still like me. Sure, whatever. Feed that pile of crap to the next underage dumbfuck you get fucked in the ass by, I don't invest in the very horseshit that I've been selling by the tanker-load long before you were an accident in you mama's gut. Yeah, so you liked the sex, it's just that I'm a negative pig and a lying son of a bitch. But that was okay, until you begun to become just like me. Is that really my fault? Can I be blamed just because I told you that you were the finest piece of tail I've ever had? How was I meant to know that you would pick up my knack for deceit so naturally. I must be a truly cruel bastard to encourage your young self into deceiving even your closest. Yeah, yeah, that's such a fucking crime. Someone in the moral court of self-righteous delusions should arrest my grotesque consciousness. But I swear I didn't know I'd make you into something you already fucking were. Is this a fucking joke? Where the fuck do you whores think I learned to be such a fantastic fucking sinner? From thin air? Or from all of you fucking innuendo-peddlers. You fucking meat spinning on down that stainless steel pole with every deliberate gesture an act of utter betrayal designed to bring that flock to their weak fucking knees. You fucking women. You had me once long ago but this Mr. motherfucker ain't kneeling no fucking more. So save your lines for the morons in your splendidly enormous fucking fan clubs. I didn't make you anything you weren't already becoming. A cunningly arrogant illusion-merchant. Just 'cause you said you loved my cock up your ass, doesn't mean I actually believed you. Just 'cause I said I loved you when you did what I said, doesn't mean you ever in fact did a goddamned thing I really fucking wanted, you sold-out, spineless, attention-grubbing slut!
I leave an impression on her. But that's a fucking lie. I don't mean shit to you. And I never did, So what. Fuck off. You can argue and stress how important my very suggestions were to your meek and absorbent infinity. You can tell them all how I make all the difference in your day just by saying, "shake that tit!" You can say whatever the fuck you like about how I was the best thing in your miserable fucking life. And I will listen to your declarations of faith and truth. But I ain't sticking around like so much puke on the toilet of your mouth. You cannot break my fucking heart. This little idiot sure ain't that fucking stupid. As much as I may lie to your fucking face; as much as I may hold you tight when you cum; as much as I may hurt your rectum when I fuck you hard – I never once indulged the ridiculous confessions of your ludicrous fucking lollypop tongue. You're pissing in the wind, baby. Do you feel that? Do you? No, not your foot in your mouth, I mean the spray on your face. Tastes like irony, you fucking Judas chickenshit. I ain't Jesus, I'm just the pennies up your coin-slot of a fucking cunt. You cannot turn your back when I'm already hounding you. Tell them I was your rapist. Tell them I was your first. Tell them I was your favorite and forever one and only. Say whatever the fuck you like, you insignificant fuck rag. You were never that special to me. But you're right, I lied about that too. You were a script that I read like I wrote it. So I failed math yet I sure as fuck know what hour it is, and your clock is right on time with every tact I played. Yeah, that's right, you were a fucking game, just like I was a fucking test for you. It's all a fucking test. No one gets through this without some thicker skin. So shall we call it quits? No, fuck you. This isn't about absolution. This is about getting my end away, all over your face. You're goddamned right, it's all about sex. Nothing more. Never more. You hold nothing more for me. Not a single other thing. It's sex, sex, sex, motherfucker. After that, you're really nothing more than a used and fucked-up condom to me. Kind of disgusting and good for fucking nothing!
I leave an impression on her. And what am I left with but a bad fucking taste in my mouth and just another reason to hate every fucking women I have ever fucking seen!

LETTER 3.
WHEN WE'RE NOTHING BUT TOGETHER

I told the truth – and look where it got me? Jesus fucking Christ was never crucified for any of the sins I have committed in vain. And how come this shit hurts so fucking much? I'd already cut the central-nervous-system out of this delusion over a fucking decade ago, so why the fuck am I punching walls again over a fucking woman? A girl! Just another fucking little devil in the pit I like to play in. So why have I cracked over this? Why did I let her in? Why the fuck didn’t I put a stop this when I knew it was starting to become a little too fucking dangerous? But mostly, would someone tell me to shut the fuck up. I did this to myself. It was a conscious fucking choice!
You wanted the truth? No problem, no fucking problem at all. Ah, but there’s the issue. I told you the truth. My secret alpha. I told you what I did, all the crimes and devices I delight in indulging. I told you and you played along with the lies to hide our entire existence. But now, now you don’t believe anything I say. Now you've stepped over the abyss and I've lost you to the fathoms of misconception below. I thought we were on the same fucking side of the chasm here. Why the fuck did you pull back against the initial inertia? We were like the moon and the ocean. You were my most beautiful conceit. My only shame was not illuminating the rest of these motherfuckers with whom it was that I laughed last with. I can get away with any discipline of deception, yet there was never a need to bite my tongue when no one saw what is right in front of their fucking eyes. And here I find myself now. How did it come to this? But that's not a question I need to ask. I just want to know how the hell it fucking hurts this much, for fuck’s sake, especially when you said I never noticed what you thought in the first place!
No!
I would have baseball-bat-fucked over any little shit that laid a hand on you, if only you would surrender more than just your flesh to me. But you held back and refused to listen to exactly how I fucking felt. You fucking women always dismiss that which you all say I am incapable of. Yet if I didn’t appreciate you, then why the fuck does it feel like a fucking genocide inside my fucking skull right now? But who cares. It’s too late. It’s over. But fuck that shit! This fist in my throat is not about to go down so quietly. So I lied to a million other little fucking bitches; so I fucked more than my fair share of nameless assholes; so fucking what? I will not repent, regret, nor renounce a single goddamned moral atrocity I've committed upon some unknown faceless cunts. What you and I had was different. What you and I had was more than that. What you and I had was not so much of an understanding, but more of an equality than I had thought to find in another. I broke the rules and said the wrong shit at the wrong time, and I know I hurt you with the acts I live by, but you stabbed me in the back with your own fucking attacks in time. Did you really think I would tolerated your socially acceptable misadventures with nothing a pinch of indifference? Every mention your lips made of another’s pillow, infuriated my patience. You’re damn right, I’m a jealous fuck. I want you all to myself. But it was you, you who said how you didn’t want all of me. How much of a kick in the balls is that, really? I hurt you – you hurt me. You promised we would stay the best buds despite all the bullshit hang-ups we saw fucking-up everyone else all around us. Why did you suddenly change that idea? Why didn’t you fucking tell me that I needed a mouth-guard for this new game? I would have then brought a jock-strap so that this kick to the balls wouldn’t rip my fucking guts out like it fucking has!
And fuck, I know, I fucking know. You’re so young and I'm such a pig of an old-school ball-bearing. I accept that I should have known better than to fall for a kid. But life’s a tricky motherfucker like that. And yes, yes it was a surprise to me. But I never assumed you to be naive in the slightest. I despise innocence and I fucking loath purity. So I should have known that you would re-evaluate the orientation of the guidelines once the bed sheets had been soiled more often than not. I should have anticipated this revelation. You’re young but learning. I knew this was coming. Shouldn't have fooled myself to think that this would last. But the fucking truth is I never thought I would fall for someone like you this fucking hard. So blame and laugh at my fucking lack of self-restraint. All of you motherfuckers can point at me with all the hysteria of a rapist Colosseum. Knock yourself out at my expense. After all the lies that I have gladly spun other puppets with so professionally, I can afford at least this breath of untainted truth. Regardless of all the sarcasms, all the insinuations, all the fucking ironies and satire I spit in their stupid fucking faces (and you can even call me a liar, and deny this right now), but I do fucking love you!
Once again however, I find this self-destructive circle fucking me in the head for old time's sake. I didn’t know you felt so strongly about me. How could I? I can't expect every liar I roll the dice with to still be there in the morning. Even when I played the part of more than just a pounding pound of carnage against your exquisite lines, I was afraid to show you the color of the comfort found from your closeness. I had hoped that by now you would have seen the kind of man I really am. I thought that you could see who I was when we were nothing but together.
When we're nothing but together.
When we're nothing but together you should have realized that you mean more to me than I can tell.
But when we're nothing at all together, then you can know that I have become that piece of shit that you’re currently telling everyone else I am right fucking now.
But not yet! Not fucking yet! You still mean more than nothing – to me if not to you.
Yet this is a worthless confession. I believed I was irrelevant to the bigger picture. But as the indiscretions added up with the shit in my head, I am deducing a truth I had thought merely an illusion. Am I significant? What influences have I actually cast a shadow upon? But how could I have known, if I'm just a fucking nobody? Unimportant. Good for nothing. Miserable little fucking idiot. That's the only light that I've been envisioned within. That is where I began and that is where I will end. Against all the art, all the experiences, all the lattice of sex and intimacy, I find nothing but fleeting devils in the divinity of a dead water’s reflection. I don't matter. I make no difference. I am insignificant. And yet, if I've altered the sleep partners of more than just myself, I start to question my-selfishness. Maybe I am wrong about a great number of things.
I had wanted to measure up and become more than just a whore. But when I asked you out right, you so simply informed me that: I don't love you. A kick in the teeth or my just desserts? Either way, it doesn’t hurt as much as the dread of knowing that I'll never kneel behind you as I hold you in my arms sniffing your naked spine. It is the fear of understanding that you will never become absolutely all mine.
I would risk the consequences of full disclosure any day before this idea of complete dissociation.
But go ahead, remind me that I don't matter. Tell me I'm the oblivious one. Confirm how you’re utterly replaceable. Say whatever shit you want about me, 'cause I know right now you’re the fucking liar!
You’re right about one thing though. You’re hurting me and I don’t like it. So please stop before I hurt you in return. I just don’t know how much more I can take of this. And we all know one irrefutable truth, that when I aim to hurt another, I am ruthless as fuck!
Just remember: this is not the end, this is just the evolution of our sin.
Or is that really what you’re running away from?

LETTER 4.
BOTTLE IT UP

Why do I feel things for those I don't want? I'm trying, I'm trying real fucking hard to break the curse of the three. Doesn't anyone fucking see what I've done? Why the fuck hasn't anyone noticed what I've been doing? Can't someone fucking stop me? Because I'm finding it real fucking difficult to control myself. I don't want to feel this shit. Fucking women. Can't live with them, can't stop the damage they cause my muscle tissue. I don't give a fuck what I've said before, I just can't seem to switch this skullfucknoise off. Switch it off – it's just a conscious matter of decisiveness!
And then.
Yes.
I'm fine again.
I'm fine.
I'm fucking fine, motherfucker!
Never better.
I ain't bitter.
Sure, I can work under these self-destructive conditions. When the shit hits the fan, I deal can with it. I turn my back and it's not even there. It's a documented fact, that under high-blood-pressure, I focus. You'll never see me betray what I put my closed-mind to. You know very well how I can fuck you long and hard. Just like I'm fucking-myself-up every time I make you cum, and I don't feel a goddamned fucking thing. I know I'm just a fucking idiot, but I'm getting real fucking tired of not understanding this. Why am I so disconnected one minute, and then the next, I can't breathe 'cause I'm lost in the silhouette of her profile? I'm addicted to obsessing over her every misconstrued facial incarnation.
Fuck! Am I having a fucking breakdown?!
No!
I'll do what I do best – bottle it up!
It's so easy to keep this bullshit a secret. Just don't tell. Don't tell anyone and you'll be fine this time tomorrow. But that was yesterday and I was wrong again. I feel fucking fantastic!
Thanks dad, but you should have beaten the crap out of me more often, I'm having real trouble staying on these mental fucking rails. I thought conditioning was meant to dictate over your lack of character. I thought I was just a stupid little shit. Why don't those motherfucking theoretical laws come and put me on the straight and narrow with iron fucking bars? I'm really getting scared out here in the dark right now. Do you hear me? Hello? I don't like being out here anymore. I know there's something out here. And I know it's only me. But wait. Wait. Just wait a minute. No. It's only me again.
And nothing I've said matters.
Fuck the weak!
I'm fine!
You're the fucking weakling!
It is my hatred that makes me strong!
Cruelty is power!
I'm fine!
You're to blame!
And I won't fucking stop!
Ruin my life and I'll keep going. It's always been a fucking worthless sack of shit. You can't make me feel any worse than I already make myself. I'll see me dead before I bow down to any flesh-god or meat-devil. What am I but a man. Nothing more. Maybe something less than I had ever thought I might sink to. But fuck you all. Come what may, it is only my lack of a soul that has to pay.
But still.
Why do I feel things for those I don't want? I'm trying, I'm trying real fucking hard to break the curse of the three. I hate this fucking number. The three, the last, the present, and then the next.
1 – Longing for the last little girl that I lost.
2 – Indulging in the present tense individual.
3 – Infatuation with the next temptation of the hour.
Why do I feel things for those I don't want? I'm trying, I'm trying real fucking hard to break the curse of the three. Trying to keep it inside. I don't want to deal with this fucking shit anymore. But what am I if not the very shit that I fuck? And yet she still asks why I like to sodomize her.

LETTER 5.
I'M NO FUCKING SCIENTIST

You tell me that you love me, but I don't know how exactly you expect me to react. You know I don't do anything for the greater good, so how could I solve this crossed-word? I may admit my sadness when you hurt yourself, but I won't omit my sadism when I get you on all fours again. You and me are null and void until we're 'we'. But my motives mirror my methods. Selfish, I serve my Satan. I need you as much as the crucifix needs the Christ to cum upon the full-circle of your lips. The two bleeding as one as we fuck our way to get what we want. What we want. But what you want is not what I do. The 'we' only works while we work together. But I'm sorry, your chemical build-up isn't compatible with my milk shake, baby.
I can't be yours. I can't be your one and truly. I can't be what you need to get through this fucking hell. I can't be what I never wanted to become. I'm not this ugly face, not this deranged laughter, I am not even the guy in that black-n-white photograph that you love so much. See that thing out the corner of your eye that's fucking you from behind. That distorted thing is all that I can be. Who can I trust when everyone I ever wanted never needed me? Some part wants all of you all to myself, another part wants to cut your fucking throat wide open. Part of me wants to commit body and soul to your cause, while a different part wants to fucking hack you up with an ax and then grind what resides within your ribs into little fucking chunks of raw fucking mince. Another part just wants to have a laugh at your expense, while some part of me feels burned in union with your most holy essence. What can you be when everything you seem, seems not to be what you seem. Sometimes I believe I know the way out of here. Sometimes I know I'm just adrift in a bottle that I think I threw away a long fucking time ago.
Fear change!
Fear these fucking changes!
Why did this have to shift pivot? Just wanted a little fun together. But why did I just have to start feeling other fucking sensations. Isn't an emotion just a feeling, a feeling just a sensation, a sensation the stimulation of a sensibility. I thought I had beaten myself down enough times so that I'd be numb to your hands. So how are you able to reach past the callouses and push out the knots? I knew I shouldn't have let my guard down, and so did you. I assumed we knew we shouldn't fucking go there. I fucked up again.
Your fault. My fucking fault. I point the figure and three more point back at me. There's that fucking number again. My life ain't nothing but a fuck-stain on the very fucking chair I'm standing on to reach up and tie the noose of my own confusion. I would drink a thousand gallons of whiskey, and smoke a Mack truck of crack if I could find a little clarity in this fucking pig sty skull-fuck. But I know all the drugs and piss are no more useful than a blind faith in hoping someone else might help me get through all of this bull-fucking-shit. This is between me and her. Me and the one to whom I wish I could love as much I delude myself that she cares for me. Maybe a oil tanker will drop out of the sky tomorrow, and I'll be dead. Then all I will have ever been, is whatever she wanted me to admit I was – I don't even know where that fucking leaves me in the end.
These chronicles are nothing but the troubles of an utter lack of trust and a lifetime of deception that has finally gotten the better of my worst side. All I have learned is that I need to adapt to this breakdown, or I'll eat myself alive. But I see no light. This despair has become maddening as it dead-ends with every corner I turn. And I keep turning my back again and again, and again I find that I'm stuck.
I wish I was smarter than this. But I know I'm not.
I have become abysmal.

LETTER 6.
WHAT HAVEN'T I WRECKED?

I dig my own grave and I shit in it. I told you. I told you there was no sin below me. I told you so. I told you this would happen. I knew this would. This is all going according to plan. Fuck them all. This hurts but it's secondary. My goals are my own and their destruction is my reward. What kind of a misogynist do you fucking think I am? Every moment I'm alive I am living proof that your god doesn't give a shit. Sacrifice. Sacrifice. Fucking sacrilege. Play the game. Bend over backwards. Compromise, empathize, and self-deprecate. You got to give a lot to get even a hint of a goddamned taste of that peach's prune. Piss on your own pride and fucking say, please ma'am, might I have just a little more salt to hasten my thirst? No, sir. No, sir. No bags full, sir. Fuck her. Fuck her. Reach past her wet thighs and pop it up her golden asshole, sir. There is a point where all the chess in all the world won't get you out of this tar-pit of ethical-puke. You got no choice, motherfucker. Summit or punch your way out of this concrete cage of self-consciously unconscious naysaying.
At the end of the day what did I tell you? You dance with the devil and the devil blows your fucking knee caps off with a pump-action cock down your fucking throat. Been there. Been here. I know exactly what her cunt will feel like. I see the curve in the tone of her decrepit voice. This is not what she started out to be. How quickly the water of her offered glass evaporates far more extensively than merely half empty.
You say: liar! I say: what's your fucking point?
You ain't no virgin in this school hall of deviants playing piano. I ask you, what kind of a misogynist do you fucking think I am? I didn't get this fucking far without leaving your bleeding fucking heart out the back door for all the flies to fuck. How much did you truly believe I could invest in your interest rates? You're a profit margin, while I'm a discrepancy that can easily be equated the moment you get a mood swing. My worth is less than you can bet on, baby. No sure-thing ever was so absolute as the ending of you and me!
I don't like myself very much at the moment, but that's more than I can say about you, you fucking hole in the meat. I don't want to do this anymore – but I'm going to. Because I like to roll my bloodshot eyes against my dry fingers every time I get another sweet sixteen-year-old to suck me down again. Nothing means anything. That's right, everything I say and do has no fucking reasoning. I have no truth. I don't mean a single fucking thing I say. I'm not even here. How can I say a word in defense if I've burnt all my doctrines. I have no principles, no motives, no plans, no fucking idea what the fuck I'm really fucking doing here. Can't you motherfuckers see, I'm just making this shit up as I fucking go along. But if ignorance is bliss, then why the fuck ain't I laughing?!
Contradict! Contradict! I am the doldrums of the epitome of an oxy-fucking-moron!
I hate what I fucking want!
I want her!
But god knows, not nearly as much as I fucking want myself!

LETTER 7.
I ONLY DO WRONG

She has driven herself a few thousand miles past the point of lunacy over what I've done. How the fuck has this chaos come to pass? Me, just a little shit of a thing. How the fuck can I have caused all this fucking mayhem? I'm seriously looking for a layman’s answer here, sheriff. I don't get it. How can a wretched motherfucker like me make so much fucking trouble? I didn't mean for her to do this. I didn't know she would. Why the fuck is she still mutilating herself in my name? Once upon a time, I was so utterly unextraordinary that I could have eaten my own face and not a fuck would have noticed. Now however, I'm the whore at church and everyone knows there's blood on my cock. No way out of this straight-jacket of Venus-conspiracies. This last ditch attempt to worm out of these choker-hold martyrs has cost me another fist-fuck to my kidneys. You'd think by now I'd have grown a second skin of dead sin to slip out of during monumental mother-load fuck-ups like these. You'd think so, wouldn't you.
She wants me to help her. She wants me to help her hate me. Christ, that's fucking easier than you could ever imagine. But I really don't want to talk about this shit any-fucking-more. How about we forget about all this emotional nonsense and have us a little sex, sex, sex and take this sodomy sideways, kid.
Does this mean I've past through the worst of it already? Is this crap finally going to get a little easier? Or is it me that keeps making it hard? Actually, I thought it was the way you sucked me off that got me hard. I didn't ask for this shit to get serious. I just wanted insincere infidelity. Is that really so much to ask for? Can't I just tap this root, and then be off down that abominable road to the next devil in painted-on jeans, without your burden following my miserable little conscience. You know I don't like what I do to you. But I'm well aware of how much you love the way I fuck you against the wall. So does that make me the sinner or just the suspect?
Perception / perversion. You see what exactly? How the hell am I meant to know what I look like from her point of view? I can't even look into my own eyes in the mirror anymore. What have I done to make them say such flattery and insults? I ain't rich, I ain't famous, I ain't shit. But just make me see it from your point of view and then I might, at last, grasp the concept of what I seem to be seen as, so I might finally fully understand what it is that I'm doing so horrifically wrong. Sell it to me. Convince me of your argument. Win me over. Because honestly, I always thought I projected the impression of Prince fucking Charming!

LETTER 8.
I LOSE

So the chips are down.
The pig's out of the pen.
You got me.
Good for you.
I raise my glass and toast to your most excellent warfare.
Well done.
Well fucking done indeed.
You got me to admit the unnecessary just to incriminate myself for my own humiliation.
Well played.
I do commend you.
You fucking women.
Got me to strip naked and leave all my keys in the other cage. You got me to admit defeat, and as soon as I was at my most vulnerable – you shot me right in the back. Leaving me with no alibi, no defense, and absolutely no grounds for an appeal.
You won and then you hung me out to dry for all the world to laugh at.
I am impressed.
Yes, I bought into this sentimental courtroom's battle of beliefs.
I actually thought the truth might set me free.
Oh, what rash and poor judgment upon my part.
I accept responsibility for these petty maneuvers that I've cluster-fucked these past few weeks. I guess I should have kept that ace up my sleeve, along with a plane ticket out of this fucking country.
Yes, you got me, you got me good.
Get that stamp out and use your boot to label me the 'liar'.
It's true.
Shit, what the fuck, you got me on a roll here. Hell, I lied so much it makes my sides hurt when I laugh so fucking hard about it all. Kid, I will even admit that I was really quite fucked-up over you. Me, of all people, bought into your most elaborate of agendas. But let's not forget that most important of trivial points, that if I'm a liar, then so are you.
But for whom this doesn't fucking concerns, the reality is: I have fucking learned nothing!
But have you learned anything?
You can't humiliate me!
You can't make me humble!
How could I possibly be ashamed, when I loved every fucking minute of our systematic decline. It's the head-trip that gets my rocks off. You have no fucking idea of the lengths I've gone to to break myself for this self-torture. What the fuck do you know about commitment? What exactly did you ever fucking risk? You think you had it hard done by? I let you have it fucking easy, you amateur cunt!
You can hurt me, but just as the depressive lives for the failure, I am only absolved of every self-doubt by the fact that I know now it's fucking over!
And I'm fucking glad it's over!
Of course I loved fucking you in the asshole and getting you to sink to somewhere near my level. But now I'm no longer needed here to fuck-up your life. The mess we've made in your morals will fester for some stretch of your precious youth. But you were fucking right about one thing: you are absolutely fucking replaceable. I've been sucker-punched by beautiful meat before, and I'll quite happily fuck your sister just to see that look in your eyes when I ever so accidentally leave some damning bread crumbs for all the gossip-hungry world to see. Accidents? The truth is whatever the fuck I allow you to perceive. Yet does this hostile retort burn even more bridges? I fucking hope so! I ain't into moon-walking, bitch! I move on and over whoever the fuck gets in my fucking way. I ain't in this for the friends or the money. So what the fuck can you offer me apart from your worthless and ever so used-up teenage holes? And your goddamned right, I ain't going to try and get in touch with you again. You think I offended you? Well, your insults just reached toxic fucking levels on my intolerant shit-list, you sniveling fuck!
If anything, I'm proud of you for ending it, 'cause I was just going milk it for more that you were worth; and there ain't much that I haven't already chewed up and spat out.
So once again, I toast your health.
You dealt a fine final hand in this ultimate end-game.
Bravo.
Bravo, bitch.
You got me to incriminate myself with those hush, hush secrets I live for. Ah, well, it's worth it just to see other's expressions when the truth slaps them across the face like a intricately crafted sledgehammer.
I may be guilty, but how fucking righteous am I in my wallowing convictions.
I played you, you played me, and I fucking loved it.
You won and then you hung me out to dry for all the world to laugh at.

LETTER 9.
WE ARE EQUAL IN OUR CONTRADICTIONS

After all is said and done, it's all over. And finally it's clear and simple. How could my life be this distraught if I didn't actually want to be what I cannot become.
Christ knows I actually tried to be with you. But life is shit like that. Is that a virtue or a curse of being human? Able to see one's own infinite wickedness just to detest everything about oneself for hope of a better tomorrow when one might become a someone else. Is the conflict between the head and the heart what gives you a soul, and is the pain the original motivation driving you to elevate out of this continual trauma? Or is everything we suffer just the inflammation of self-pity?
I could say: fuck profound and rational investigations into this visceral disorder. But once I finish writing this, I will have no one else to talk to about what's going on behind the locked doors of my scowling contempt. I could just frivolously describe how I feel: that I feel fine. I feel tired. I feel like I don't want it to end like this, but we both know too much. Perhaps it's my delusions that desecrate my striving, leaving me fucking pissed off. I'm so fucking alone and saturated in this sadness that it's getting really questionable why I'm even still alive. I'm too fucking stubborn and childish, yet ultimately I miss her. Maybe it's the gutted hole in my thought process that suggests perhaps I'm really not as shit as she insists that I am. Am I worthless? Am I overly defensive when I can't even seem to defend myself at all? Am I truly as cruel as they all assume? Maybe it's just my nature to sabotage my loved ones. All I want to know however, is when will someone actually hold me accountable for all of my fucking actions? Or is that my job? But my conscience is a calculation I tend to play with like a blind mouse in a blender.
So where has all of this mess gotten me this time? I want to say sorry for all the pain that I've caused. But I don't regret a thing. It's not like I wanted us to end like this. Still, I am what I create. However, I would never wish you away. I will always hold you in my mind's eye when the shit goes down. I would let you beat me like dog if it could atone for my wrong doings. But time has come. That ship has gone down. It's over. And here I find myself, without you. I have loved and lost more than just my soul when I fucked you.
I want you back. Yet I never get what a pig doesn't deserve. There you could say is the answer I was looking for: I don't deserve you. But what the hell have I done to deserve all of this? Oh, that's right, I'm the bad guy. Yet even fucking pieces of shit are capable of the realization that we hurt more than just ourselves. I want to hold you and stop the pain I caused. Though you aren't even here to hold me when I need you most. We are equal in our contradictions.
I fucking told you, I need you. As honest as I could be – and you still didn't believe me. What hope do I have?

© 2008 BRUCE STIRLING JOHN KNOX