Category: Crimson Writ

A four clove evening, one right after another while I sit at my desk, window open to the rain, and write.

There’s a problem with inspiration; it always comes at a cost, an attachment.

Funny how I see those things as one and the same.

But I want it. I want to peel back the skin and find something bloody and tender. Something to remind me why I still seek to possess something that by its nature is painful to share, and even more painful to lose.

I want to hold something fragile.

A glass rose.

A bead of rain.

You.

Fingers hooked on the front of your jeans and I dragged you close.

I read the uncertainty in your eyes, but there was no hesitation in my own. It didn’t take much to loosen your jeans, just a quick unsnapping of buttons and my hand was drawing them over your hips. I could feel your indecision like a low current along your skin, but while I was moving slowly, letting the jeans settle around your feet, I gave you no chance to escape. My hands moved to your wrists, drawing them over your head, and your shirt joined your jeans on the floor.

You were bared to me, clothed now only in the sheer fabric of your panties. I leaned forward, forcing you back a step, until you were trapped between me and the desk. My hands encircled your waist and I lifted you, settling your ass near the edge.

Knee nudging your thighs apart, I stepped between your legs and buried my right hand in the back of your hair. Drawing your head back to expose your throat, my words were spoken against the long curve of your neck.

“Mine.”

And you were, for you had no where to go.

With my other hand, I unsnapped my own jeans, but left them on, just freeing myself ,a length of heat against your naked thigh; I was content for the moment to let it rest against your skin, a solid reminder of my intent. In contrast, the light touch of my lips along your neck was almost gentle, slow, and lingering.

Nuzzling your vulnerable throat, my lips parted to taste your skin.

But where lips moved, teeth soon followed, first grazing the pulse alongside your neck and then sinking into your shoulder.

I drew aside your panties and buried myself inside of you. Almost as a reflex, your legs twined behind my waist, pulling me in until you were filled completely.

I used my grip in your hair to draw you close enough to kiss – hard – biting your lower lip as I drove inside again, and again, and again, relentlessly, bodies pressed tight; I could feel your breasts pressed into my skin, your thighs around my own, and there was no pause, no moment of peace, just savage fucking until I felt you tense, your gasp of release caught against the top of my chest.

The taste of the ocean after swimming. Speaking to an old friend for the first time in years.

My memories are like that, indelicate yet graceful and forever untrustworthy. In them, I am a better man then the one I am now. The person I was yesterday is cleverer and more amusing. His words were crafted with great care and singular purpose. In comparison, the words I use today are accidental, clumsy and benign.

This particular memory is only half realized; I can remember the words as they left me, remember the way they tasted as they passed through my lips while I drifted near the edge of sleep. But they were silhouetted words, sheer and razor-thin, fragile in their cruelty, and I cannot remember how well they survived the rite of speech.

I was telling her what I planned to do once I had her under me: kneeling over her bare back, a sharp curved knife in one hand, my other on the back of her neck to hold her perfectly still. I told her I would carve her the wings she craved. I would trace their shape along the smooth skin of her back in precision and eloquence. Her wings would be bold, bloody, and beautiful.

I wanted her to fly.

Or, at least, I wanted the memory of it.

I want to write you a love letter.

I want to catch your fingertips and unravel you in ribbons of red satin.

I want to fill your quiet places with the memory of my voice.

I want to envy your fall while I orchestrate the means of your descent.

I want to be your fondest regret.

I want to write of faith.

Proselytize the beautifully corrupt notion that I can save you by making you bleed for me.

Acknowledge the ache you harbor and the agony of being used in a way that leaves you warm and sore. I want to hear your prayers for the kind of release that unwinds you, unmakes you, until you are a ribbon of gold unraveling forever.

But I cannot; my mind, instead, is consumed with tangibles.

I think of your hip, rounded and smooth, and the slow dip of your back when you’re braced against the wall. I think of the scent of your skin, vanilla and spice, and the low heat between your thighs stoked with words and fingertips until I can feel it pressing into the palm of my hand in rhythm to your breathing.

And when I have you there at the edge, I think of the small sounds you make, words of lost coherency, the soft cries and sharper mewls of pain an animal makes when deprived of some basic need.

I want to write of faith.

But today I need more.

“In a world of dolls. I am the smallest.”

Mon petite fille, my bloody angel, you are indeed.