I like the sound of your joints unlocking
Like a deadbolt in emergency set, the irony
Of your immoveable limbs pressed into
Uninhabitable geometries in a futile
Endeavor to rage against confinement
I like the silence of your dry mouth
Tumbling at the realization of a
Ensuing winter, of a winter that
Suffers affection only through the
Administration of wicked black frost
=
I like the smell of copper falling into
A wishless well as your hands grip a
Godless leather book in pathetic
Submission to your Godless prayers
I like the smell of a freshly laid victim
Whose unwillingness to conform to
A superior sex has rendered her fear
Contrived pallor a magnificent red
=
I like the feel of my palms against your
Throat the bruised palate of flesh blossoming
Beneath my artistic fingers, the cadaverous
Mantle of malignant shadows which cleverly
Define the inferiority of your volatile half-life
I like the silky texture of torn flesh pink and
Vicious, like the razor-blade confessions of a
Mute vulnerability, the paper-wrapped carcass
That defines me as much aesthete as butcher
=
I like the way your eyes look when
The stitches between pupil and
Iris split apart and a black, porous
Panic overtakes your vapid composure
I like the fullness of your pouting mouth
Bloodied and askew with an incoherent
Agony, the inhuman whimpers drawn
From the bowels of a primitive despair
=
I like the taste of you cold and metallic
In the semi-consciousness of a false goodbye
The taste of your stagnate breath resisting life
Of your tongue fermented with the dark wine
Of an unresolvable addiction. I like the taste
Of power the dexterous knot of a manipulated
Cherry stem, of a malleable martyr silenced
By the threat of mastication, if not for survival
Instincts I would have destroyed you long ago
=
One day when my senses are no longer aroused
By the application of your suffering I will kill
You and myself through confession but not until
I have disposed of the contents within us both
And fashioned of you a workable body bag
=
This is fictional in a manner of speaking. I have said as much in previous posts but my father is a psychopath. He used to talk at great length and with great pride about his victims, particularly the women he abused so I have had a much too close for comfort look inside the sick mind of evil and that is where this stems from. I am not a psychopath myself and so I can’t presume that I have given an accurate portrait this is just based on those horrible horrible conversations I heard growing up
mindlovemisery 