Twisted Deviant

She watched him under the veil of her eyelashes, suddenly feeling subdued and embarrassed. Her palm stung. A bitter reminder of what she had done; the pink imprint of her hand slashing across his pale cheeks. Her heart tattooed dangerously against her chest, as she watched him move closer to her. She raised her hand to strike again. “Once was enough,” he whispered in that low silky voice, his hand grabbing her arm. She looked up into his face. Big mistake. His eyes were hard and black.

it’s a quaking darkness hidden deep lilting bruises that hide beneath the surface thin white scars of crisscrossing memories deep as a river he comes to me brushing past the pain he slides into me like a song and I feel him plant his seeds fear is the demon simmering below twisting the guts until nothing but pain exists it’s an old tune playing seductively in my ear the steady rhythm holds close the song repeating over and over sometimes it comes in shallow breaths lungs squeezing out the air inside the music swells in gasps and groans of movement a symphony of agony is this madness that has come to me for he cannot be real the ground he sews is infertile desolate memories are the death they defeat the light in darkness they multiply growing larger until the morning is met with screams my mind has gone he has become more more than he could comprehend I yearn for that garden he must grow past and future are irrelevant for the mind ...

when the words no longer flow expression becomes stilted sliding along the edge of something yet blanking towards the pain of nothing he thought to trap me in a cage of words to mute my voice with his subtle interest vindictiveness was never my forte neither was virtue yet the pale walls scream like a blank page I know why the caged bird sings boredom propels it to seek in art what is missing why does it seem like everything is missing funny how silence rings in your ears or is that the blood pumping the need for words scratching at the surface of my skin is love suppose to feel like this the bed squeaks its answer his body next to mine hot and sweaty my brain screaming to be released he thought to trap me in a cage of words wrapped in a licentious promise going nowhere fast and furious yet here I am again with nothing between me and the paper but a pen that does not move and a memory of what could have been

it gnaws deep within my breast a beating demon screaming as I tear into the corner hiding like some callow coward afraid to face the mirror no longer recognizing the face that stares out this body which was once mine feeling odd disconnected what once was my shield my shelter my salvation from the pain the illusion I present to the world the gruesome mask to push away the world has become my prison it is my curse my rage turning into snakes slithering through my hair my price for protection as flesh became more than I can sometimes bare instead of turning men into stone my visage only deaden interest but this was the plan my penance a shroud of defense this was what I desired Athena was not instrumental in this perversion of myself I created this mask of my own volition I had become use to my existence the seclusion a balm to my weary soul hiding from the terrors turning to stone the insecurities of my foolish heart how I often wish it too could become cold marble the barren field did ...

He stood, in the cool darkness of his dungeon, smelling the vapors of the potion just beginning to simmer. Without checking the volume laying open to the right, he added just a pinch of mandrake root, then stirred counter clockwise four times. The bubbling liquid turned a bright shade of yellow as he lowered the fire underneath. With one last glance at the cauldron, he turned back to the worktable and began cleaning up the mess. Each ingredient was stored meticulously in a corked container, and then placed in a specific spot on the shelf across the room. Once the last ingredient was placed on the shelf he moved back towards the work table and picked up the wand that rested next to the volume on the table. With a quick little mutter, the door to the cupboard swung shut, sealing itself against all intruders to this dark domain. He turned his attention back to the worktable, grasped the book with firm white fingers, and then glided to the back of the room where a small door opened...

too true too true she would mutter as I puffed on a cigarette drinking a glass of claret as if all the problems could be summed up in subtle tiny words he does not know and I freely admit he does not for how can he know when I do not communicate it is so simple to say all men suck they know nothing nor do they care but that is only a balm to sooth our guilty souls it is harder to say that we are simply afraid does it always have to be this hard mumbling to myself as I take another swing she just laughs hard it’s tinkling and cold much like I think sex would be with her thank god I haven’t a cock but still she is my friend though I am not sure why my eyes scan the room they are all the same dancing and swaying in chaotic rhythm a hold over from our tribal days it is erotic sex on the floor in full view and I feel like a voyeur watching yet I cannot tear my eyes away she sits beside me licking her lips she has found prey god pity the poor fool I itch to run away to log into the electroni...