You are faith,
        favored by the sinners
        forgiven but not forgotten
        first to be filled
 
           last
               to flinch.

     in silence
         sentenced.
 
     in stillness
         left

     you belong here.

—

Happy new year, children.

I am off to the city of sin, to enjoy a week of decadence.

Here, a small gift.

Listen. 

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D'jaevle, Grail

We crave food because we need it to sustain ourselves, to fuel our bodies. Food tastes good because if it did not, we would not eat and we would not survive.

We crave sex because we have a biological imperative to procreate. Sex feels good because if it did not, we would not reproduce and we would not survive.

But why does being bad feel so damn good? Why the thrill of going against convention, breaking the rules, or just doing something that is society says is wrong? Why is being wicked so deliciously exciting?

What’s the biological reason for that?

If I write this on your skin, perhaps the words will be a slow poison, a sublime promise exhibited in the symptoms of our illness.

I believe in my ability to possess someone in moments. To make them understand that when they are in front of me, they are everything. The world becomes a place of tools, a vibrant unreal painting that is useful only in the implements it provides in sharp knives, leather restraints, and delicate instruments of pleasure and pain.

Sadism has its place; but I prefer that thin line between the two, where it becomes hard to tell pleasure from pain. I use sadistic measures to get what I want, which is a consummation, a devouring.

I want to deconstruct you; find the pattern of your mewls when you're caught between a rock and my hard place. I want to follow the curvature of your heart, worn on your sleeve, but kept under your wings.

I want to taste the blood on your skin.

When traffic is steady, but moving, there is a game I occasionally play.

I'll study the distance to the car ahead of me, close my eyes, and count.

One, one-thousand. Two, one-thousand. Three, one-thousand. Four, one-thousand.

Five. Six. Seven.

Eight.

I often stop at eight.

But not always.

—

where have all my bad dreams gone
the house without doors
the cracked teeth and empty eyes

where have all my nightmares gone
denser than my waking thoughts
where I wait with anticipation for my
paper-thin demise at the hands
of kind strangers

Sometimes dominance isn't about how much you can take.

But how much you can accept.

I prefer the greedy girls
    the lost children
        who have forgotten not
           how to play
              or pray
                 or
                   may
                       be
                           they have
                                  but they're good at pretending otherwise

—

Sometimes I see my words as sharp, covered in jagged edges, a sweet, warm and jagged pill. 

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D'jaevle, Unfinished

You can write the story

Or live the story.

Do both, and you run the risk of fictionalizing your existence.