Red Wrists, Dec. 19

I know that I’d feel so much better if you’d tie my wrists together using thick strips of black leather, twisting them tighter whenever my tongue acted out, rebeled, screaming ‘well if this is hell, at least I’ve got someone to tell.” But you’re not much for feelings now, not right this second, standing proud, your heel digging into my hand, chips of tooth that feel like sand. Baby baby, break me break me. Build me up so you can take me down, down, down, down, lower than the lowest bound. Waking up must be done sore, and there’s always time for more moments of complete dominance, when the younger eyes might turn or wince to see demise so plain it spins like strips of lies and leather hides, kamchatka irises in mind. I end up feeling so much better when you tie my wrists together; I end up feeling so much better when you tie my wrists together.

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~ by perfectionatrix on January 5, 2010.

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