She loved me like a snuff film. 

She loved me like she found me wrapped in brown paper, forgotten in the corner of some dirty parking lot. A patch of cement strewn through with broken glasses and dead weeds. She took me home; I had no name written on me.

She loved me like something private and fatal. She loved me like suicide on a slow day. She loved me like she wanted to slit her own wrists and forget her own name; she just wanted me to teach her how. 

She loved me for my screaming, my struggling, and the weak way I went down. 

She loved me like something she could put a stop to.

The best part about her, was the way she broke up as she struck my skin, like asteroids striking the earth.

There were other people in her life, but I culled them out, to make room for myself. Her boyfriends and husbands found themselves trapped in boxes, floating to the bottom of the sea. Her girlfriend I kept in a series of small paper sacks, under the kitchen sink. Her friends I turned into sandwich meats and piano keys for foreign countries.

She struck my skin and burst at her seams, at her seems-to-be-normal-now, at her seemingly impossible inability to turn me away. 

She struck my skin like honey dripping down from the sun. She exploded against me like waves pounding beach rocks into sand. 

The best things about her could all fit in my mouth.
My mouth and my dreams for a better world.  

Gonna put on that abstract pattern generator, watch some colours go drifting by. Look for lessons in the drifting, shifting blurs.

Yellow and blue overtop of each other like a photonegative of fuck all. 

Red spheres burn and churn and turn over and over and over until their big flat plans of dots, exploding dots, of orange and chartreuse. Kicking rhythms turns the shades against themselves, turns the shapes into emptiness and turns the emptiness into a shadow that pulses. Radiates. 

It takes me in. Aqua lines crack into a world of red and white. Dotting spirals of DNA twist around each other. Über-Violet, introspective-red. 

I’m blinded by, y’know, insight. 

I liked you more when you bled more often, when you had an obvious, open wound, that gushed your innards out, like a jelly donut when I gave you a squeeze. 

Soft and white, squeezing out something thick and runny and red when I squeeze you, just like a jelly donut. Just like a snack I could eat late at night, all by myself. Or maybe the sort of treat I’d like to flaunt; let the whole world see as I sunk my teeth into you.

I like the bashful way you obey me when I tell you to get naked, when I tell you strip off your metaphors and just say what’s on your mind. I like the way you avoid me, evade me, switch the topic of the conversation, just when things are getting a little too good.

I’m giving you my literary criticisms as I reach for your tits. Distracting you with prose as a hand goes up your skirt. I’m sure I’ve got you convinced, but I’m also painfully aware that what attracts me to you is my suspicion that you’re a bit smarter than me, so I don’t push my luck any further than I think you’d like it to be shoved.

You ask me really personal questions like, “what do you want to know?” and “what would you like me to show you?” You expose yourself in a way that makes me want to feel exploited, makes me want to feel guilty and used, like you’re wiping yourself off on me when you’re done fucking your hands. 

Yellow tights. Green-and-blue striped tops. Diagonal stripes. Big brash belts. Thick masks that look like leather or a secondary skin that was just sprayed on overtop.

No luck necessary, just an adaptability to speed. 

Her fangs are sharp as razors and as sexy as an oil slick in a ballroom gown. Her eyes are pure darkness and her soul might be as well. 

I’m not sure I believe in souls anymore. I can feel a bitter electric field surrounding every human body, I can even see them when I flex the inner cortex of my mind, but soul? I don’t know.

She doesn’t believe in the electric fields that I assure her I can see, but she keeps her mouth shut when I make the sacred hand motions that let me strip those same electrical fields from an opponent’s physical form.

They make this noise as the electricity leaves them. Like their whole lives are screaming out in pain at once. 

I don’t know if we’re heroes. I mean, I don’t like the people we hurt, so that makes us seem like the Good Guys to me. But the cops still fill the air with bullets as we make our escape, and the news papers have a tendency to focus on our body-count than on the positive impact we’re having on the community. 

But when I see a man, I can see this rippling wave of energy all around him. And when I use my hands, I can turn that energy into steam, and turn a man into dead meat on the ground. 

She licks her fangs and spits acid blood from off her tongue. 
She rips people apart, thick gobs of human blood staining her uniform.  

I hate being so cruel, but you make me incapable of being kind. You take that tool off my belt, you remove it as an option or a potential path. 

I hate being so cruel to you, really I do.
I don’t care that you get off on it, that it feeds your basic need for self-destruction. 
I don’t care that you love being hurt by something that loves you.

I hate being so cruel to you, but you leave me no other options.
You don’t notice anything but the worst parts.
You strain your back to get under it all.

And I can take it too, I can take my cruelty at least as long as you can. It’s almost nice, letting it loose on you, rather than carrying it around all lonely all day.

“So I march her back to the bed again; I make her walk a pace ahead of me so I can study her ass as she goes; I put my fingers in her mouth so she can’t talk; she makes a sort of desperate gasping sound; she makes wet, soft sounds; she’s a wet, soft thing; cruelty, again, brings it out in her; cruelty drives me to drive it into her; she’s a wet, soft thing, making wet, soft noises, and curving her body to escape the idea of escape; she makes submission submit to her desires; she breaks the rules of thermodynamics in order to get off; she licks a big hole in my argument, and plays with the ragged edges; my edges get more ragged, the more playful she gets…”

Ah, come on. We all have our own, “I was the shy kid in class and now I over-compensate by being intensely & overtly sexual,” stories to tell. 

What’s it giving you, really? What are you getting out of it? What am I?

Am I just trying to live out song lyrics, trying to frame my life like cheap pornography (because the cheap stuffs the good stuff), making these vain attempts to transform myself into something amazing and shiny and not like I was before?

I mutate my own genetics, striving towards the super-beings, dreaming of flexing perfect muscles and fucking in a translunar orbit. I mentally fixate on using paranormal capabilities to give you orgasms. 

We’re not so different, you and I, except for like, you know, where it matters.
And everything matters, nothing matters, when I’ve got you in my eyes mouth.  

She dares me to make something of myself, and I back away from the edge, scared to see my own reflection in the abyss. 

“Just take a jump,” she urges me, that knife forever in her hand. Every other lover she’s ever fucked, still dripping from the tip of the blade. “Who knows, maybe you’ll grow wings before you hit the bottom.”

“Just because its never happened before,” I say like I just realized something, “doesn’t mean it never will.” My spine is still shuttering from where she put her lips, from the razor-blade of a tongue she keeps half-trapped in her mouth. 

She puts me to the edge, and whispers sweet nothings of encouragement in my ear. She says unimaginable things, provocative things; she makes me want to die, and she makes me want to throw myself off of something impressive. 

It’s not just about me - it’s about the rest of the world too. Because if I’m going to fly or fail, they’re going to have to, at the very least, clean up the corpse. 

I wake up with her under my skin like a rash. I wake up with her dreams in my head like I’m not even thinking my own thoughts anymore; I’m just a cheap radio receiver, broadcasting her electric signals. 

She’s nothing but electric signals, a passageway through smoke made by little sparks. No sense of presence, just a sensation. 

She’s sparks on my skin.
She’s a bit of bleeding just under the surface level.

She asks permission, but nothing’s given.