Sex Life

It did berate him, more than it should. His anger appeared minimal, appeared as a diminutive spark of frustration. The sparks were brighter when he was reminded of it and he kept it in, only releasing a slight glow of embers from a burn-out inferno. He surprised himself so much without being spontaneous ; maybe that was what did him wrong and set his heart to flame. It was blackened and crusted but still beating steadily, wheezing under a slight amount of ash. On top of that, his body went a more cannibalistic way- devouring his muscle mercilessly. Emancipated? Yes, that could be said. His hip-bones protruded like an island arc above his tight, low-rider jeans with a disgusting sense of a twisted beauty. A hollow ribcage whose contents were practically abolished jutted out with an almost shameful pride. This was what he had done.

There were no restrains. No apologies. No answers. No reason thus far to quit the more new-found obsession of just how fucking good raw wrists felt, or how great his stomach and heart sputtered from being given nothing to vomit back out as life-force and energy in general.

This was what he had done.