Sweet Emotion (15-18?)

My first love. My only love. You picked me up, some years and some months, and then left me. And I was alone.

Even now I ask myself why you don’t love me back. Why you are reluctant to let me closer, to help and to see behind your walls. I let you behind mine. If you are happy, I shall be happy; but you are not. Therefore I fret and I am not.
But enough of this clique nonsense. This mindless drawl and scribble.

Yes. Yes I can see you watching me. Your eyes are so wide, so brown; so scared. It occurs to me that I have never seen you cry until now. Yet, you have seen me. You have seen me at my worst, at my best and all those times in-between. It’s a little selfish; don’t you think? You’ve seen me at my biggest and my smallest, at my sadist and my highest. But you only have few faces; while I have many.

Does it hurt? I’ve always wondered that. Does it hurt to have your wrists bond back, your feet bond down? Your body cut and pierced? Your head pulled back by leather binds and throat wrapped in piano wire? One sudden movement, you know, that’s all it takes.

I dance the knife above your genitals; gently tracing the skin. You squirm and whine. Do you know that I squirmed and whined? I was shattered and alone, trapped inside and begging to get out. You trapped me!

I cut the skin on your thigh and you bite down hard on the rag in your mouth. No screaming; not for you. I slash again, watching as the crimson drops bubble from the wound and flow in a beautiful stream onto the sheets of the bed. And the colours inside the flesh fascinate me; the peaches and pinks, the blacks and reds. So enticing and beautiful. At this moment I know; You’re getting more than you deserve.

A glance at your face shows your utter fear. Your watery tears gently sliding down your cheeks; yet all I feel is power. But I begin to cry too and climb up upon your naked body. One leg placed on either side, straddling your waist. I lean over and trace the knife along your bruised torso, course the outline of your pecs, cut the skin around your tender nipples; all the while crying softly to myself.

As the steal breaks the skin, and the liquid flows out, you bite down again and try to scream. Don’t you understand? No screaming; not for you. I sigh and climb down from your body. Once again I begin to cut the area around your genitals, careful to go as slow as possible so that I can watch your expression as the blade slices. You squeeze your eyes shut, twist your head from side to side but quickly cease when you realise the piano wire is corroding at your skin. It’s laughable.

And you look at me again; a deer caught in headlights. Yes, I still love you, that won’t change, but you’ve hurt me long enough. This is not hate, it was never hate; its lust, love, want, need and pain. Miles of festering pain.

I know what I am doing. The knife gradually edges closer to the tender skin of your genitals until it cuts the base of your penis. You try to scream; god how you try to scream. I slice again, a little higher and a little deeper. Your eyes can talk; and you know my plan.

I’m sure, in that moment when the grin pulled at my lips, that I looked mad. But I can’t tell from your expression; fearis constantly painted on your face now, so it is unreliable to assume your expression is aimed just at my smile. I slide my palm up over your stomach and as you watch my hand, the other slices the knife slowly into the skin near the tip of your penis. And then a rapid movement separates the flesh. The blood is flowing; really flowing and you bite and scream, squirm and twist. The agony is obvious in your eyes and I can’t help but cry. The pain and anguish I had felt, you are feeling now; I hope it taste fucking bitter in your mouth. I hope you can taste the own bile in your throat, the own searing bolts of pain coursing through your body; I hope you feel remorse for what you have done.


I watch you from your beside for some time. The detached tip of your limb penis lies between your thighs, the blood soaking the sheets and staining the mattress beneath. I cut you a few more times, along the arteries at the crook of your elbows, at the back of your knees and vertically down your forearm; all for good measure. The beautiful droplets of blood have become streams and then rivers. Your skin is becoming paler, your demeanor is more relaxed and your eyes, although still frightened, have a glassy film and are fighting to keep your lids from closing. My body is slumped over the bed, my head resting on my right arm while the left hand traces circles on your stomach with a single finger. You stopped twitching at my touch twenty minutes ago and suddenly I find this morbid. I lean forward, pull the rag from your mouth and let it lie around your neck. Your lips are cut, spots of crimson mark your chin, your lower jaw immediately begins to shake. I kiss you gently, tasting the sticky, metallic liquid on my own lips. When I break away I meet your eyes, hazy and confused. I am still weeping, as are you, but I know I can’t let it defeat me; I won’t lift the phone. No matter how your eyes plead with me.


I stumble back to my chair, lay my arm on the bed and resume the same position I had held before.


Within the next hour, I am watching your eye lids flutter as your eye’s roll up into the sockets. Your body is pale, paler than before and the nerves cause your limb body to twitch and fidget. I whimper aloud, reach up to your face and us the flat of my hand to slide your eyelids closed. For a moment, I don’t know what to do. He is gone, dead no less and by my own hand. What do I do now? Do I grieve or celebrate? Live on or die? It seems unfair to leave him alone; but then he left me alone. So, I relax into my seat, fold my arms and decide, here and now; you are alone in death, as I am alone in life.