55.death

This is not a cry for help, btw.
When i was a teenager, when i was 14, 15 years old and even younger and then older, I never used to think about sex and fucking, i was too busy thinking about death.
Love, i've never acknowledged it so when i hear some stereotype crap about love, i tend to snort even if i try to suppress it, people just see my inward sneer, fuck!
anyway, yeah, death, i got a book THIS big where i worshipped death, i thought it was the only viable solution, or thing, or conclusion so why bother with anything.
death also meant cutting, like seeing how close i could get, or if i got stoned, i felt like this, like closing in on death, touching it, kissing it, making love to it, childish fantasies really,the blood spilling with each cut was a sort of consummation, i thought death was the best lover i ever had.
and maybe all the things i was doing started out like death, like the anonymous fucks in the park, or the onymous fucks behind the church or/and in my school's back yard where gangs of teenagers roamed and robbed rich kids of their shoes and cellphones, well, i was the second or maybe third wave of crime during the night.
and maybe all these little gestures were not about identity at all, not about love, not about sex, not about seeking attention or getting a reaction, not about provoking or forgetting, it was all about death.
but what was there for me at the end of each fuck, at the end of each ejaculation wasn't death but a lament, or maybe i was killing little things in me, but i was doing sth wrong, sex had nothing to do with Death, but maybe in those dark parks and those back of cars i was only killing what i loved.