December 12th, Year of the Corpse

It is when a man speaks of his mother that you know him well. I do not always care to know a man at all. Joseph’s friend Anthony pays no concern to what I want. He will decide it for me. I am only too familiar with a will being imposed upon me. Resistance to this behavior has long since perished, in a lost battle.

Anthony is a beautiful enemy to all. He is on an ever search, for the one who destabilized his life. I ask if he has ever stumbled upon a reflective surface. If in looking for the devil and coming up empty, he didn’t consider how the hooves that made the hunt possible, came from behind him. He smiles, then says that a woman’s opinion never mattered to a man.

I will make a game out of you, child, I say. You will let me off your Catherine wheel, I say.

He bites my neck with a great deal of pressure, to see me on my knees, to establish dominance. I say nothing, refusing to confirm I can experience pain. Instead, I look at him with boredom. He bites my arm. He bites my leg. I produce no sound. My eyes are fixed on the rain, on the idea that personal insight is temporary, on the loyalty I claim to feel for others being nothing more than words.

At three in the morning, he left my side, never attempting a fuck he longs for, but will never transpire. All I am, all I will ever be to him, is his revenge on Joseph. Like most people, Anthony hates what he loves in equal measure. What better way to strike, than to defile what your foe considers his most treasured possession.

December 12th, Year of the Corpse

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