Showing posts tagged with “writing”

To the Man Who Stole My Dignity; opening.

You are no longer a fantasy derived in this small head of mine, nor are you a figment of my imagination. You are a living, breathing specimen of human life. And it will be to my pleasure for you to leave this life, at least mine. I cannot avoid you and I can no longer attack you. I regret nothing I’ve done to hurt you, I mourn no part of your life that was broken by my hand. Better yet, I take great joy in knowing that my hand may have played a part in your tears. That someone so selfish, so disgusting, so vile of a creature could be hurt and that I was the one who did it. Essentially, I hate what you’ve done to me. I hate that you’ve destroyed what confidence I had. I despise that you tore away my trust, not from eager hands offering it to you like some blind follower hands his love to a God. No, you stole my trust, you stole it from clenched hands, not open. They were holding tight, holding tight to what I had left, but you had no part. Oh no, no part. You wanted it. And I’m positive you didn’t want my trust to enjoy it, you wanted it to destroy it. I had something you wanted, and I had something you got, and I had something you threw away. Like old garbage tossed to the side of the road. Like a sofa that was past its prime or an aged cat that had no ears, no mouth, no tail to beg for mercy, to plead for a second chance. No, I was faceless, I was nameless, I was emotionless, I was nothing. Nothing to you then and nothing to you now. But I am an nuisance. I have irritated you. I have been relentless to seek what I feel I deserve. Apology. Nothing more, nothing less. I don’t want you to touch me. I don’t want you to feel me. I don’t want you to see me. I just want a goddamn apology. You did me wrong. And no, it wasn’t just a mere stealing of treasures that I held valuable. It was a thievery of dignity, a burglary of my fucking pride. Something of which I really didn’t have to begin with. And something I very much so lack now. I won’t thank you for helping me find the error of my ways. Because you didn’t, I found them myself. I fixed them my goddamn self. And I will continue to fix them BY MY SELF. I don’t need your help, I don’t need your dick and I don’t need your presence. It’s disgusting. You fucking disgust me. I think of you and I am repulsed. I am disgusted. Your body, your face, the way you walk, talk and move. It’s all disgusting. Repulsive. It’s a horrid thought to think I let you fucking touch me. Oh and not only did you touch me roughly, but you touched without emotion. It wasn’t even a friendly emotion, it was like I was some goddamn prostitute but I wasn’t getting paid. Although, I should have for dealing with your inadequacy. For dealing with your selfish, vile ways. I hear now that you need to be rid of me. Like I am a pest. Like I was disgusting, I am a demon in your otherwise perfect existence that is (or seems to be) dedicated to God. Well, you’re friends may not know, you’re parents may not know. But I know, and you’re all-powerful God sure as hell knows that you are no saint. You have no right to pass judgement onto others such as me, that act like me, and walk like me, and talk like me. No. No, you may pass judgement onto us, but in reality, in reality you are just like us. You walk like us, and you talk like us and you breathe like us and you fuck like us and you will die just like us.

I need to write again.

I just…I need to.
But I have nothing to write about.

Except for my angsty stupid self.
I don’t even know.

I just…-.- I’m just full of shit lately. 

I wrote an entire novel that was heavily influenced by Sailor Moon and my own stupid imagination.

I wish I could find it, I think I’m just going to give up searching and rewrite it from what I have left in my head.

I love lists, okay? And I’d just like to write a list of authors I respect and idolize AS A WRITER, not just a reader.

  • Anne Rice*
  • Ray Bradbury
  • Lynsay Sands
  • Laurell K. Hamilton
  • Sherilynn Kenyon
  • Adele Geras
  • Stephen King
  • Kate Chopin
  • Arthur Miller
  • Shakespeare
  • Edgar Allen Poe
  • Homer
  • Susan Holloway Scott.

There’s plenty more but that’s off the top of my head. Some of contemporary writers, some are from the early 1800s, some are from ancient times. I respect them all nonetheless, and they inspire me a lot.

Satisfaction.

It was dark, so dark. I could barely see my hand two feet from my face, much less your body climbing atop of me. But I liked it dark, I liked doing this in the dark. I liked that you couldn’t see my flaws, you couldn’t see the wrinkles in my thighs or the marks on my stomach. To you, my skin looked flawless, pale, beautiful. Like it should, like it always should. 

And my eyes probably did not look as glossy as they really were in such darkness. You couldn’t see the unsure gaze in my eyes as your body inched closer and closer to my own. Naked, warm bodies coming closer. And you plunged deep, I wasn’t expecting it and I let out a small whimper. And you clasped your hands over my lips, and told me to shush, that we may wake your roommates in the next room. That I wasn’t supposed to be here and that I should keep quiet.

So I obeyed, and I closed my eyes and I dug my nails into your skin and I let you move me as you pleased. That’s what I was here for right, to please you? Of course, for I wanted nothing else, did I? No, I didn’t.

And we moved, well, you moved. I laid on my back, and I smiled at the wonderful feel you were giving me. I could feel our skin merging, even beneath the exterior. It was merging inside too. You’d chosen not to wear a condom, and I really could’ve cared less. I just wanted to make you happy. So I did.

Happy. A smile on your face, soft little moans coming from your lips. You whispered “So tight” so breathlessly, that I had to just smile in confidence and satisfaction. Hmmm, I was wasn’t I? At least for you. I seemed to not please another. But no matter, I didn’t care for his satisfaction, only your’s. Yes, only yours. 

“Drama just seems to be fucking blooming in my life right now. And I am the bee that keeps feeding the flowers.”

You haven’t called. You are a minute late, now two.
This is strange. Very very strange. Are you okay?
Did I do something?

I’m losing my grip. Reality is no longer real to me. 

Bêste Noire

Selena scuffed down the dim, lonely city streets. Her platinum locks seeming to dance to the frigid breeze surrounding her. Most nights, Selena could walk down the streets with the guidance of the bleached out moon. But tonight, he decided not to show and the sky was just a dark graveyard of black, the stars dimly showing like forgotten gravestones.

Why think such creepy things, Selena? No one is behind you. Selena tried to calm herself down, thinking about butterflies and happy thoughts so that her goose bumps would leave her pale arms. Her ears perked to the sound of something rustle. The goose bumps, which she d worked so hard to dismiss, returned back to her, consuming her entire body now. She glanced to her back, spotting a scrawny alley cat scurry away from the scene, leaving in her wake a spilled trash can, with papers taken away by the wind.

She continued down the concrete, and not a second later she heard another rustle. A loud, harsh rustle. She feared to look behind her, and just quickened her pace. Click, click, click. Footsteps, loud footsteps. Selena opened her ears, drowning out her own clicks of her heels so as to identify the stranger s. Work boots, steel-toe. I can out run him! Her brain rang with her paranoid thoughts always consuming her body. Her pace quickened first to a jog, and then a full run. Her soft tresses always seeming to work their way in front of her eyes, so that she felt almost blind.

Selena ran faster, her own high heels clicking on the pavement, ringing in her ears. The boots stomped louder and louder until the stranger, too went into a full run. She could hear his heaving breath close behind her. She dodged his first attempt to grasp her hair, and then another when he reached for her dress. Click, click, click, click. The sounds of their feet meshing together in her ears, forming a morbid melody of fear.

I post portions of my stories thinking people care/read them.

Oh but I see you, I see you doing so many things to me. I want you to do so many things to me. I want you to touch me. I imagine your hands, I bet they are rough and large. I imagine your face, with your goofy big ears. I imagine it between my thighs. I should stop imagining. I am not a sexy girl. I am nothing to be wanted or longed after. I am normal. I am chubby. I am taken. But, I don’t want to be taken. But I only want to be single if you are. And I only want to be with you if you are here. And I only want to be your slave if you are willing to be my master.

I can’t really take it anymore, you know? I just want to touch you. Or maybe you could tell me I’m worthless and it will never happen. That I have to admit I am with him and you are 3,000 miles away and I can’t change anything about that. Nothing will change. No miraclous occurance will happen. You won’t be transferred to my state. And I won’t be able to go to college in your’s. Nor could I ever really LEAVE my boyfriend. And for you? Think of how angry he will be. I could kiss all chances of “we can still be friends” goodbye. 

But I just need your help. I need to know that I should love him, and not lust over you. But, I am so lonely, you see. I am lonely. I am neglected. I want touch. I want sex. I want dick. I want to be fucked. I want to be taken over. I don’t want a pussy man. I don’t want a man with a vagina. I want action. I want strength. Muscles. Biceps. Arms. I want a bigger dick and stronger hands, and so much. I wish you were here. Quite often I wish such things. 

You are so cute, so perfect. And I am so young, so untouchable. It’s sad, isn’t it? You know nothing of my fantasies. And it should remain that way. I think about it, only recently. Maybe it’s the carnal instincts in me, or that girlish way of seeing a man only as looks and not as a mind. But it doesn’t defer me from wanting that.

No. But I feel disgusting. I feel like a harlot, a liar, a whore. It’s awful isn’t it. I’m hypocritical aren’t I?

You think of me as a little girl. I see you as a strong man ready to lift me and sweep me away. And it should just stay that way. You are there. I am here. And that’s how it should stay. Perfect alignment. Perfect lives. Perfectly friends.

“They keep asking me, “If he lived here, would you leave Humble for him?” And I find myself questioning whether my answer would be “Yes” or “No”.”

— My story, Guilty Conscience.