GentlemanLoser
Ex-Bluelighter
- Joined
- Jun 16, 2006
- Messages
- 0
The call comes. It always does. And while I fire the verbal suppresion fire as normal, we both know I"m just doing it to follow the routine. Can't ruin the non-spontaneous feeling we always had, now can we?
I dread it, but I love it. And by tommorow morning I'll watch my caller-ID impatiently everytime that machine chirps, and each time it does I pray in solitude that you'll be the bitch on the other line. It never is. I just get right now. I get this hour or so until you say it's over and then back to the mundane and non-saturated-you world I go. Make it end. Only you can. I have never had the force of persona in your presence to end it.
So what do you want? Pity? Sex? Compassion? Whatever it is your life is lacking, you think I'm gonna give it up for you now, to make you feel better. So you have something else to cry about, anything but what you should be crying about. Being your last resort is an honor. I'm it. That time I fail might be the time you finally rid the world of you. I already know I'm gonna be your Martyr to that, I'm to blame for everything. I know that. You've stabbed me with that statment over and over. Even when I was already bloodied and expiring, life congealing on the floor in front of you, you just kept forcing that sharppened curse through my ribcage. Your persistance is to be admired. It finally wore me down. No one else, just you. I bet you smile about that, when you're alone and I'm on your mind. In those hours before you snap again and pour your thoughts at me.
I always listen.
I'm not strong enough to say "FUCK OFF!". I'm not weak but you're my tendon. You're the spot that is sliced open and renders me defenseless. Limping away as I might you loom over me, your fangs crimson and bared instinct takes over and the lunge at my throat ends my crys. It's over, I'm down. The next few hours are yours and I'll pretend I don't care since I have to make some attempt at repelling the assault.
This is a hostage situation. Captivated by the sobbing siren that still occupies my thoughts even when she isn't making me her security blanket.I damn the fact that you even have my number. Every time it changes I know you'll find it. You'll go looking. Every time we end this game you say "Never again, if thats what you want." but it's to appease me. Appeasement is all it is and you know this. Thats the only reason you agree to my meager demands. Shame my happyness has never been a priority, just some territary necessity to ensure my obedience. Just enough to always be your friend.
Wishes are used, when penies are pitched childishly into fountians every time I pass them. Superstition makes sense when you run out of hope. I wish you'd just stay gone.
I wish you'd give me time enough to get over it.
But tender, soft, fadding scars are a thrill to a saddist like yourself. Tear away. I bleed and wail but I only fight enough to make you think I don't want it. If I cave and give the baby what it wants, it will throw it away and scream for something new. Your immaturity is vile, but dare I point it out? Of course not. If I'm as mean as you are to me, you'd go away. Wouldn't you? Not that I'm ever thought about, except when you want something.
I'm a bank. I store empathy and warmth, things long in short-supply for you, and every time you come to make a withdrawl I get a little more powerful. My resolve sharpens just a bit. Time will pass and you'll come back and I wont be there. You'll be alone and who will you turn to? Who's going to accept and listen and love unconditionaly someone who treats them like a human benig and holds them still when they cry? Probably no one.
I take comfort...cruel and sadistic glee...in that knowledge.
So tell me about suicide. Maybe one night I wont talk you out of it.
You're not serious. You never were. But lets both pretend. The drama heightens the experience.
Maschoism is a drug, I ache for pain, thats all you offer. I accept it. I'll take whatever I can steal away in between your breakdowns
I dread it, but I love it. And by tommorow morning I'll watch my caller-ID impatiently everytime that machine chirps, and each time it does I pray in solitude that you'll be the bitch on the other line. It never is. I just get right now. I get this hour or so until you say it's over and then back to the mundane and non-saturated-you world I go. Make it end. Only you can. I have never had the force of persona in your presence to end it.
So what do you want? Pity? Sex? Compassion? Whatever it is your life is lacking, you think I'm gonna give it up for you now, to make you feel better. So you have something else to cry about, anything but what you should be crying about. Being your last resort is an honor. I'm it. That time I fail might be the time you finally rid the world of you. I already know I'm gonna be your Martyr to that, I'm to blame for everything. I know that. You've stabbed me with that statment over and over. Even when I was already bloodied and expiring, life congealing on the floor in front of you, you just kept forcing that sharppened curse through my ribcage. Your persistance is to be admired. It finally wore me down. No one else, just you. I bet you smile about that, when you're alone and I'm on your mind. In those hours before you snap again and pour your thoughts at me.
I always listen.
I'm not strong enough to say "FUCK OFF!". I'm not weak but you're my tendon. You're the spot that is sliced open and renders me defenseless. Limping away as I might you loom over me, your fangs crimson and bared instinct takes over and the lunge at my throat ends my crys. It's over, I'm down. The next few hours are yours and I'll pretend I don't care since I have to make some attempt at repelling the assault.
This is a hostage situation. Captivated by the sobbing siren that still occupies my thoughts even when she isn't making me her security blanket.I damn the fact that you even have my number. Every time it changes I know you'll find it. You'll go looking. Every time we end this game you say "Never again, if thats what you want." but it's to appease me. Appeasement is all it is and you know this. Thats the only reason you agree to my meager demands. Shame my happyness has never been a priority, just some territary necessity to ensure my obedience. Just enough to always be your friend.
Wishes are used, when penies are pitched childishly into fountians every time I pass them. Superstition makes sense when you run out of hope. I wish you'd just stay gone.
I wish you'd give me time enough to get over it.
But tender, soft, fadding scars are a thrill to a saddist like yourself. Tear away. I bleed and wail but I only fight enough to make you think I don't want it. If I cave and give the baby what it wants, it will throw it away and scream for something new. Your immaturity is vile, but dare I point it out? Of course not. If I'm as mean as you are to me, you'd go away. Wouldn't you? Not that I'm ever thought about, except when you want something.
I'm a bank. I store empathy and warmth, things long in short-supply for you, and every time you come to make a withdrawl I get a little more powerful. My resolve sharpens just a bit. Time will pass and you'll come back and I wont be there. You'll be alone and who will you turn to? Who's going to accept and listen and love unconditionaly someone who treats them like a human benig and holds them still when they cry? Probably no one.
I take comfort...cruel and sadistic glee...in that knowledge.
So tell me about suicide. Maybe one night I wont talk you out of it.
You're not serious. You never were. But lets both pretend. The drama heightens the experience.
Maschoism is a drug, I ache for pain, thats all you offer. I accept it. I'll take whatever I can steal away in between your breakdowns
