62. satanic ritual

All hail the divine mockery of words!
All hail the sacrosanct act of thievery, blessed among poets and madmen, on a twisted path to erection!

I'm not as good as they come. I'm not suffieciently good. I'm not good at all.

I'm not even a person. I forgot how to be one. Who is a person, please stand up. Please, raise your hand.

Am I a stereotype or a thief of identity? A liar and a sinner, i lied my way through rehabilitation and psychological evaluation, and sinned through the slow and painful process of therapy and healing.

You know, the actual struggle begins now, child. You know, this is where it will get real tough.

gee, thanks for not putting any pressure on, doc.

You'll be fine. You're strong.

I just nod because i want you to like me. I'd say and do and agree to anything for you to really like me. Maybe enough to pat my head or squeeze my shoulder. Just don't say you love me because that's a lie. Just don't touch me, not too much anyway.

One step at a time, dear. One day at a time.

          the new morning is poison. it's damnation. one more day. (10-9-2010). sitting on the toilet and taking an insignificant shit. never has my surface been so clean, so immaculate, so clinically deterged. shit smelling of flowers and all. how am i gonna make it through one more fucking day. i think of god and how i'd love him to help me but it's not like i really believe in his existence so i'm just sitting here insides clenching, anus discharging manure. i mean, one more day. fuck.

      this is going to get all weird soon. i know it. i can feel it. it's like a  sickness in my bones.    

satanicritualize me.

I want to slip down to my basic essence. I want to look in the mirror and see me. I want to strip layer after layer after layer -off! Even the bones wear a snicker, a wariness, impassiveness that drives you out of your mind. The strongest bleach and scrub won't reveal me.

                                                                                        i know you have tried to.

It wasn't so much the need to be loved as it was the need to be known. To be translated. To be figured out. To be given a name and a meaning. To be given a narrative and a narration. To be given a circle of friends and comrades and a category. oh the blessedness of falling under categories. 

                                                         i know you have tried to pry open that can of worms which is my stomach and my head. my mouth vomitted black pus because your incisions lacked the mastery and infected me. i lay in that bed for days screaming your name while you were out fucking some other gullible douchebag.

I told you i wanted to die because i just couldn't stand waiting for the day i would die. The waiting was fucking killing me. Seriously. It was just a matter of getting over with it. Also, I would express my allegiance to you.

i heard you fuck and i swear it was the sound of love. then you held his head and bashed it against the corner of the nightstand. there was a slight cracking sound, like when you poke at an eggshell. i stood there shaking. it should have been me. blood ran down that side of the furniture. the boy's hair stuck with blood on his face. it was like a yellow strawberry turban. it was so long you could choke him with it.

In the hospital I grew my hair long for you.

   degrade me into a hole in which you can shit in, piss in, cum in and throw your dead children in.

i'll digest everything. i'm strong.

i'm hallucinating.

take your pills. you'll be perfect tomorrow.