God hunt

Desire is the cruelest god/dess that exists. By far the cruelest entity. And the one I wish I could hunt down and draw not letters, but whole stories on him or her using blunt knives. Desire always drags me by the hair no matter how hard I try to resist, no matter how much I kick and yell. No matter how good I am at suppressing countless things for unfathomable amounts of time, desire always has the last word. And for some reason, he/she appears to be the Siamese twin of sadness.

Goddammit.

I am angry, no, I am ballistic with that fucking asshole, that excuse of a man who had the nerve to suppose I am the kind of idiot girl or snake girl he is accustomed to mingle with on regular basis. I wanted to chop his head off, cook it and serve it to his oh- so- important parents. But as per usual, he will never know a thing. My nuclear explosions are the size of my own brain. No-one gets hurt save for the usual suspect, me. And sometimes reality.

Desire desire desire. That demon of flesh, the only thing that gives us meaning.

I am depressed and at the same time unstable and giddy which results to the hilarious effect of talking out loud to myself and engaging in surreal conversations with mother Teresa Elizabeth / psychotic Elizabeth who wants to kill/create, maim/sooth, do spells that will unravel reality, fuck everyone in view/ nobody ever again, kill people of her immediate environment/ move to another planet or plane of existence.

Desire, desire, desire. No excuse at all for your trespasses, is there? No need to apologise or explain. You just exist. Just like heroin and rainbows. You just exist. Nothing about it. Nothing at all.

Save for inarticulate screams just behind my lips, at the tip of my tongue. Never making it out save for late at night, late, late, late. Too fucking late. Too late to explain, apologise, count your blessings, change your mind, sing us all a merry song, go have a flying fuck around the moon, die, die, die.

Cockroaches. Fucking cockroaches, a fucking shame on the face of the universe. That's what we are. A waste of flesh, breath and resources. A waste of divine inspiration.

Perhaps if I curl very very tightly around myself I will create my own little Moebius strip and vanish in it.

Perhaps desire will leave me alone to leave the remaining of my life quietly and without any meaning.

Perhaps.