Tragedy of a Broken Dream
Never have my hands shook for the touch of flesh, nor has my ears rang for the smack of that skin-to-skin punching sound as much as they are shaking and ringing right now. My mouth watering for that metal flavor and my lips quivering for the touch of a barrel. My white plaster walls begging for that crimson splash and my unsteady hands and clenched teeth yearning for that razor-blade release, the deep sigh of separating flesh. My brain silently yet relentlessly screaming for a blanket just to anticipate suffocation. My heart crying for warmth from an unknown source. Anyone? My soul and her death song wailing into the darkness for maybe just even one pin-hole of light. Every part of my body is screaming for something, even my crotch. She’s begging to be pounded beyond recognition. She wants to be bruised; she wants to be sore. Everything and every part, inside and out just wanting to be touched, beaten then cradled. Somebody’s got my keys and my razorblades. No metal to lock my door and no metal to separate the flesh or to take apart pain from imagination. Where did the silence go? That big dumb sheet that muffled the screaming and soaked up the crying? I need to breathe.
© B.L. ~Laine~