Fresh Collarbone Wounds
Love is for the weak, I'm strong.
You’re in the corner now. Still standing, but almost cowering. You’re begging me not to. ‘Not this time,’ you beg. ‘You’re too drunk,’ you plead. You know it’s no use. But you’re still begging me, still pleading with me. You tell me I’ll feel bad when it’s over, that I always do. I know I always do, do you think I need you to tell me that? I’m still going to do it though. It’s not like you can fight me. You’re in love with me. I’m not in love with you, though. Love is for the weak. I’m not weak. You are. That’s the real difference between you and me.
You look around my basement bedroom and know there’s no escape, not from your position now. You want to run. You’re choosing flight over fight. Ahh but you can’t fly away now, you’re my little birdie. Mine to touch and pet and abuse and neglect. All mine. You know flight isn’t an option but you wouldn’t even consider fight would you, my pet? You’re in love, in love and weak. Not like me, knife in hand, I’m strong. I’m larger than life, larger than the demons that haunt your nightmares in the dead of the night.
Your weakness is annoying me, stop those tears! I don’t want you to cry. I want you to face your fears strong-willed and bold. Face me strong-willed and bold. Show me your strengths, I already your weaknesses. You’re weak with me, pet. But I know you’re really strong. The scars, littering your arms, they’re not all from me. You know how to take pain. You even inflict it upon yourself. Though it’s really more of an escape for you though, isn’t it? The cuts I give you hurt much more. They’re uncontrolled, they’re deep, they’re ruthless and they’re me. They’re simply a sign of my love for you, pet. Well, they would be, if I had love for you. Love is for the weak, and I am strong.
I reach out and grab your bony, tattooed arm. Twisting it, I drag you and slam you down onto my bed. The sheets are dirty, they smell of sex and cigarettes, they smell of alcohol and drugs, they smell like me. The dirty scent goes unnoticed, however, as I climb on top of you, sitting lightly on your gracile waist. I can see the fear in your eyes, you’re hardly even daring to breathe. It makes me want to throw my head back in laughter; your weakness is so pitiful. I don’t though, I simply bask in the moment, enjoying every second of my domination.
I lean in close to your neck, still covered in purple-brown bruises from last time, harsh against your perfect, pale skin. I kiss down your neck slowly, making my way to your protruding collarbones. I make a quick incision on your right one and let the blood drip down the back of your shoulder onto my bed sheets, the red forming a dark new stain amongst all the others on the dirty used-to-be-white fabric.
You’re surprisingly quiet as I repeat this action, following your collarbones out to each shoulder, the incisions all bleeding freely onto my soiled sheets. I know it must hurt, I’ve already hit your delicate bones a couple of times.
The smell of your blood is so sweet. I want to drain it all from you, leave none for you to live on. I want to suck the marrow from your bones and chew on your tendons, fry your muscle and eat your heart, pick at your brain and wrap myself up in your beautifully decorated skin. I want to live you, breathe you, be you. But I don’t love you, because love is for the weak. I’m not weak.
I lick the blood off your shoulders, cleaning your wounds. Your blood is hot on my tongue and you wince as I lick my lips, leaving a coat of your blood over them. I want to kiss you, you look so beautiful in the dim yellowed light of my basement, but I don’t. I’m starting to sober up and I don’t feel so good. The smell of blood is making me dizzy and my head is pounding, my vision is getting fuzzy and I think I need to throw up.
You slide yourself carefully out from between my legs, cautious not to bump me or your fresh collarbone wounds. Once safely out of my leg vice, you gently lie me down in my bed, moving me so I’m not lying in your blood. You get up out of the bed and I’m considering stopping you from leaving. If someone saw those incisions, they’d be suspicious for sure but my vision is still hazy I can’t muster up the strength or coordination to sit even sit up straight, so I just moan out your name, trying to sound threatening but failing pitifully.
I didn’t need to call you back though, you come back shortly with a glass of water and a wet hand towel. I assume you’re going to use it to wipe up the blood on your shoulders. You gingerly help me sit up and drink my water, then lie me gently back down and wrap some blankets around my larger form to protect me from the winter cold. The wet towel wasn’t for you though; you place it kindly on my forehead, cooling the fever that has slowly creeped up during the night. I would love you, I really would, but love is for the weak. I’m not weak.
You find your shirt and put it on, covering your cuts up so you can lie in my bed without getting your blood everywhere. Even after what I’ve done to you, you’re still worried about staining my filthy sheets. You’re weaker than I thought. You’re not angry, or upset. You’ve just accepted the fact you’re weaker than me. You make me sick.
You tenderly climb into bed, careful not to knock me or your wounds. You tell me you love me and try to cuddle close. I’m cold and hostile, rolling over so I’m not facing you or your loving face, offering me everything I could ever want. Because I don’t want what you have to offer. I don’t want love. I’m strong.
You look around my basement bedroom and know there’s no escape, not from your position now. You want to run. You’re choosing flight over fight. Ahh but you can’t fly away now, you’re my little birdie. Mine to touch and pet and abuse and neglect. All mine. You know flight isn’t an option but you wouldn’t even consider fight would you, my pet? You’re in love, in love and weak. Not like me, knife in hand, I’m strong. I’m larger than life, larger than the demons that haunt your nightmares in the dead of the night.
Your weakness is annoying me, stop those tears! I don’t want you to cry. I want you to face your fears strong-willed and bold. Face me strong-willed and bold. Show me your strengths, I already your weaknesses. You’re weak with me, pet. But I know you’re really strong. The scars, littering your arms, they’re not all from me. You know how to take pain. You even inflict it upon yourself. Though it’s really more of an escape for you though, isn’t it? The cuts I give you hurt much more. They’re uncontrolled, they’re deep, they’re ruthless and they’re me. They’re simply a sign of my love for you, pet. Well, they would be, if I had love for you. Love is for the weak, and I am strong.
I reach out and grab your bony, tattooed arm. Twisting it, I drag you and slam you down onto my bed. The sheets are dirty, they smell of sex and cigarettes, they smell of alcohol and drugs, they smell like me. The dirty scent goes unnoticed, however, as I climb on top of you, sitting lightly on your gracile waist. I can see the fear in your eyes, you’re hardly even daring to breathe. It makes me want to throw my head back in laughter; your weakness is so pitiful. I don’t though, I simply bask in the moment, enjoying every second of my domination.
I lean in close to your neck, still covered in purple-brown bruises from last time, harsh against your perfect, pale skin. I kiss down your neck slowly, making my way to your protruding collarbones. I make a quick incision on your right one and let the blood drip down the back of your shoulder onto my bed sheets, the red forming a dark new stain amongst all the others on the dirty used-to-be-white fabric.
You’re surprisingly quiet as I repeat this action, following your collarbones out to each shoulder, the incisions all bleeding freely onto my soiled sheets. I know it must hurt, I’ve already hit your delicate bones a couple of times.
The smell of your blood is so sweet. I want to drain it all from you, leave none for you to live on. I want to suck the marrow from your bones and chew on your tendons, fry your muscle and eat your heart, pick at your brain and wrap myself up in your beautifully decorated skin. I want to live you, breathe you, be you. But I don’t love you, because love is for the weak. I’m not weak.
I lick the blood off your shoulders, cleaning your wounds. Your blood is hot on my tongue and you wince as I lick my lips, leaving a coat of your blood over them. I want to kiss you, you look so beautiful in the dim yellowed light of my basement, but I don’t. I’m starting to sober up and I don’t feel so good. The smell of blood is making me dizzy and my head is pounding, my vision is getting fuzzy and I think I need to throw up.
You slide yourself carefully out from between my legs, cautious not to bump me or your fresh collarbone wounds. Once safely out of my leg vice, you gently lie me down in my bed, moving me so I’m not lying in your blood. You get up out of the bed and I’m considering stopping you from leaving. If someone saw those incisions, they’d be suspicious for sure but my vision is still hazy I can’t muster up the strength or coordination to sit even sit up straight, so I just moan out your name, trying to sound threatening but failing pitifully.
I didn’t need to call you back though, you come back shortly with a glass of water and a wet hand towel. I assume you’re going to use it to wipe up the blood on your shoulders. You gingerly help me sit up and drink my water, then lie me gently back down and wrap some blankets around my larger form to protect me from the winter cold. The wet towel wasn’t for you though; you place it kindly on my forehead, cooling the fever that has slowly creeped up during the night. I would love you, I really would, but love is for the weak. I’m not weak.
You find your shirt and put it on, covering your cuts up so you can lie in my bed without getting your blood everywhere. Even after what I’ve done to you, you’re still worried about staining my filthy sheets. You’re weaker than I thought. You’re not angry, or upset. You’ve just accepted the fact you’re weaker than me. You make me sick.
You tenderly climb into bed, careful not to knock me or your wounds. You tell me you love me and try to cuddle close. I’m cold and hostile, rolling over so I’m not facing you or your loving face, offering me everything I could ever want. Because I don’t want what you have to offer. I don’t want love. I’m strong.