Baby, be my perfect way to die.

Be the cliffside I could tumble off of. Be the blade in my back.

Lay down with me like poison. Sleep with me like a sweet release. 

Yeah, if there’s one more bullet in the gun, I want it to be you.

If there’s one more step to take,
I’ll take it off of you,
And tumble into oblivion.  

Baby, be my ending, be my resolution.

Be the last page I have to turn to see how it all goes down.

Baby, be the end of my sentence. 

Read this part slowly, it’s full of little bones.

They snap underfoot, and they get caught in your throat, like,

Y’know,

Words you wanted to say, but couldn’t.

We all have a lot of crap like that, stored up inside us. We’re all liars by omission. We all store up all the best bits of ourselves for a tomorrow that never actually comes. We miss out on so much of what’s happening right now by caring so much more about what’s not really ever happening, not really ever at all.

Do you ever really happen at all?

I guess you do; I was watching you, out there on the dancefloor. Smiling at your friends and the cameraman, spilling your drinks down pretty people’s throats, and spilling yourself down the front of pretty people’s shirts. 

She happens to me like a heart ache attack. She attacks me like the lights going out.

She flosses and spits blood. She strips down naked and flosses, and spits blood. Dental floss between her fingers like a garrote wire. She leans into the sink, and spits heavy gobs of red blood. Red like fresh roses. It mixes with saliva and goes pink. Pink like pink roses. Pink like fresh meat. She spits blood; a little bit dribbles down her lip.

She swings a sword made out of sexy thoughts; the blade is dripping with enough erotic energy to kill a charging rhino; the blade is glowing red like a dying sun, deep in the dark of the city, where she fights.

She’s got cuts on her hands and knees, and one of her elbows makes a funny clicking sound, when she reaches out all the way. These are wounds she got, falling down the sides of buildings and killing psychic ninjas, or whatever.

She wiggles, a little less than gracefully, when she runs. Her breath smells of coffee and donuts and warm thick honey. Yeah, her breath, it reminds you of warm, thick honey. Running slowly, specifically, down something.

She’s one of our unnamed, unknown protectors, one of the mythological beings who patrol this city, keeping it safe for all the little dreaming mortals, with all their little dreams.

Yeah, I don’t know her name. But I know to watch out for her.  

I’m only really scared of two things:

Spiders and Space Travel. 

So, when she asked me to come with her, to battle arachnids out beyond the moon, you can imagine the distaste with which I responded. 

But here we are, out where the cold is so fucking cold that you can feel your skin going dead just looking out on it. Where there’s no gravity to help your blood circulate, and you’d better keep your hair short, since it’s just going to wave around and get in your face anyway.

Here we are, floating in empty space, waiting for a puncture to seal our fates forever, and spending every moment before then plunging cold steel into the hardened carapaces of fucking space-spiders. Fucking space-spiders. 

Like wolf-spiders that’d weigh a ton, built like the buicks of my worst nightmares. Great horrible beasts that truly hate us, and look every bit the part. Grat slimy mandibles. Horrible hairy legs. 

We’re living in the silence of space, as we cut them to pieces. In dead chunks, spiders the size of half my apartment fall to earth, burning like cookies forgotten in the oven. 

Jet-packs and hard-rocking soundtracks, and great shiny sabres; blades green and black with arachnid innards as below us, the moon floats aimlessly as though just a bubble on a breeze, and not some enormous chunk of rock tied to the earth with enough gravitational force to tear a civilization in half. 

Don’t ask how I know that; I just do.

Yeah, Spiders and Space Travel. My only real fears, to be quite honest with you.

But, you gotta grow up and face that shit sometime. 

She’s got a scar she named after me; it runs from her left eye to her right nipple, and down and around to her lower back. 

She’s got a scar that runs like a smooth caress around her body. A little line of harshened skin cells that surround her like the rings of Saturn. 

I sneak between her skin and her scars sometimes, in the little bit of space she leaves for me, early in the morning. I curl up close to her, and she spins me little songs of forgiveness.

“You think,” I ask you, you the reader, you my friend, you the person who followed this link to this page and now is thinking this thought in this head, “you might ever forgive me for all those things I might wanna do to you too?” I ask the question with my knife still in my hands. 

It’s not loving you I’m addicted to; it’s the pain. It’s the blood. 

My emotional response to you is kept right next to my Killing Rage, in a little box under the bed. My emotional response to you is to grind my teeth until I’m spitting shreds of bone from between my lips.

You make me want to go out dancing. You make me want to go out and meet people, to encounter strangers in dark places. You make me want to move against them, move with them, to create rhythms to move to, and to play out full-bodied forms of communication.
I’m sorry, did I say “dancing”? I meant to say “killing”. 

You make me want to murder. Loving you reminds me of holding a knife in my hand and a bullet in my ribs. Makes me think of something warm running across something going cold.

You and me, we went a little cold in the end. Stopped talking, stopped trying to be understood. Just cold stares like old enemies meeting at the grave of a mutual friend.

What we were, is something we used to share. Now we’re not really friends.
We’re just people who knew each other for a while.

All these stupid words; she throws them back in my face.

We’re stopped along the side of the road. I’m laying on her bed, staring up her ceiling. We’re in a hotel room in a strange town. We’re in the park. We’re by the sea. 

I don’t know why I wasted all the time, wasted your time with all this crap I’ve got to say. It’s not that I ever lie, it’s just all so worthless.

Words without worth. 

She shows me some kindness, and I show her the back of my head, as I turn away and start walking towards some other mistake I can lay down with for a while. 

I’m your little bug. 

I’m the viral infection in your system.
I’m in your cells, mass-producing myself;
Highjacking everything that makes you what you are.

I’m hidden in the cracks of your body.
You can hear my voice when you cough, you can smell me when you sneeze.
You can sense me, hidden within the aching of your head.
I’m between your ears, right in behind your eyes.
I’m curled up in your belly like a happy little baby, or a big fat tapeworm. 

I’m your little bug. 
I live on the edge of your water-glass,
In the spilled blood on the side of your shower. 
I eat your skin cells and I dilute your chemical essence.

I’m your little bug.
I hear and see everything you think.

I’m your little bug.
And I’m going to crawl into your bed with you,
And bite you all through the night.  

She wanted me to restrain her. I wanted her to do something to hold my fucking interest. 

She wanted to be tied down, beaten up, choked hard and left bleeding on the floor. I wanted to hold up her end of a fucking conversation, I wanted her to look at me like I was a human being and not just an erection with a taste for other people’s pains. 

She wanted me to control her, to reign her in, to break her into bits.

I wanted to find a way to make her sound like a rational grown-up when she spoke to me. I wanted to have a cup of tea and a spot of communication. I wanted to listen to the radio and think about life. She wanted me to tear her throat out with my teeth. She begged for me to spit her blood across the room.

I got so sick of her and her shallow needs that only went as deep as she needed things to go in order to come. I got so sick of making up lies and coming up with excuses to hurt or ignore her.

She hoped I’d find myself, and instead I just wound up more bored, more listless, more lonely. She painted me up and down with herself; I was canvas and instrument both, and she was the medium.

Eventually, I got bored and wandered away.
I left her for the next stray stranger who might come along to try to force some pleasure out of her.  

He tried to impress me with his big burly muscles, so I pulled out my knife and carved a rorschach image across his physique. Something interpretative but at the same time, uniquely personal. 

I left him to think about things; I left him with a big piece of glass six inches deep, right between the shoulder blades. I left him where I found him; in the middle of a battle with the rest of the world, bleeding all over the grass.

Ah, he wanted to be so big and strong, and all I wanted was to not have to look him in the eyes when I pulled the trigger. I wanted to execute him, while he was looking at somebody who could care more about him than I ever could.

I wanted to feel my fingers around that thick muscular neck. I wanted to feel the strength in him, as I brought him down. 

Ah, I just wanted to hurt him, to make him pay in flesh for every stupid thing he’d ever said. All the rest of this is just prettying it up. I didn’t care about the lessons he might learn, I just wanted to see him hurting, and hurting bad. 

It’s one of those things you have to take into your own hands, when the wheels of fate let you down for too long. Too long, too long, too long.
I’ve been waiting for you to fall down for far too long.  

She’s got the scars of a shark bite, all around her heart. You can see where the fangs went in, you can see where she’s been punctured like a blow-up doll. You can see where they drove their sharp little bits into her, especially when her eyes go dead and roll back in her skull. 

She’s got the scars of a shark bite inside her chest. You wouldn’t know they were there to just look at her, because they’re the sort of injuries she can wear up under the skin, where it’s more private. 

There’s nothing private about her skin. She’s an open tableau to the world. She’s like a story told on a scroll, and a scroll that’s been stretched around some perfect body. She’s wrapped up in her own fiction (lies, lies, lies) like an ancient mummy laid down to rest. She’s been bleeding through her bandages since breakfast. 

I can feel her scars, when I hold her heart. She hates when I do it, but it’s the only reason I’m with her, to feel her scared and trembling in my hands. She reaches down into my pants so we can both feel that way.

She stares at you, waiting for you to say something. You close your eyes, and you can still see a perfect circle drawn in the centre of her forehead. Where the bullet went in. Where all the bad ideas came out. She stares at you, and you can’t say anything at all.

You find yourself alone on the side of the road, a gun so heavy in your hand that you imagine it must be tied to the centre of the earth itself. Your spirit feels so light, a stray breeze might blow it away. Maybe it already did. 

The car is not still a car, or rather, that’s a philosophical debate waiting to be had. Is a car still a car when it’s a smouldering heap of metal that doesn’t look like much of anything at all? Just twisted metal and black smoke.

She said you had a heart of twisted metal and black smoke.
Remember that?
Remember how much those words hurt going in?

You do the thing a more nobler type might do in the situation.
You stick your thumb out to sky,
And you hitch a ride from God.

Yeah, heavy-hearted hipsters, drifting upwards with murder on their minds and blood on their boots. Maybe you weren’t that bad. Maybe you just had a good day. 

She cuts me up the centre, looking for something to eat. She spreads me open and lays into my innards with a fork and knife. 

She takes me into her mouth, and I feel my knees go weak and my blood pump hard. She gets me all over her face; I drip from her lips. 

She can’t take her eyes off me, not even when she’s had her fill. She’s like a wolf, like a feral beast that has to eat well past what its stomach can hold, because she doesn’t know where her meal might come from. She takes on more than enough of me to be sick off it.

But this isn’t me complaining, this is just me, running out into her. She’s putting into me with sharp metal and a ravenous sense of desperation. She’s chewing on my bones, she’s got my veins and arteries caught between her teeth. 

Tied to a bed or table, like an offering.
She offers me up to herself, and she takes it all.

I take the release she offers, and just sorta go with it.
Everything goes black.
She licks up the inside of my throat, and spills my head across the floor.  

She smokes the day away; she draws in vapours and breathes out a fine mist of ideas. She thinks about things immaterial, and she exhales them as well. 

She smokes my day away; she draws me in and breathes me out. She buries me at the bottom of her lungs, tucked deep under her heart. She keeps me nestled underneath all her blood and want. 

She looks at me like I’m wasting her time and she loves it. She looks at me like an overpriced novelty that’s just about out of batteries. She looks at me like she’s evaluating my trade-in value. Maybe her next lover will be darker of skin or clearer of eyes or more feminine of gender, or maybe she’ll just trade me in for a six-speed vibrator and a case of cheap beer. 

She smokes me until I’m a pile of ash at her feet. She presses up to me, lips against my form, and she breathes me down deep into her, until I’m just ashes around her toes.