I slip through the cracks between her fingers. She tightens her grip, trying to take hold of me. To stall. I keep the pace, steadily, despite her grabbing and clutching at the unsubstantial fabric of my body. She’ll never slow me down, much less stop my assault. Still, she tries. Registering every image, taking in every sound, tasting every flavor. Our senses mix till we don’t exactly know whether I’m driving her or she’s driving me.

As I go on I can see her start to twitch. I can see her fall and raise back up again. She too becomes my work of art, my signature seeping through her every pore. And though I heal some of the wounds I’ve carved on her back, over her shoulders, I know I’ve tired every fiver of her being. She can barely handle it now and knows she won’t be able to take it any much longer. So she gets anxious, and almost begs me to pick up the pace.

Implacable, I don’t comply. But soon I realize I’m done making my way through her; and she’s done making her way through me. She’s surrendered. She’s ready to be taken full, so I do. Looking eye to eye, I release her. And with one final gasp, she falls through the darkness of the abyss, into the light. Funny thing is, though she’s the one who fell into the abyss, I’m the one that lays wasted.

My feelings are light blue, from head to toes. That’s when they have any. They sport a prominent jaw and eyes that look like two boiled eggs. They also have a thin beard, somewhat like a goatee, and a funny piggy tail on the top of their heads. My feelings have broad shoulders and a thin waist, very much unlike me. Their only clothing generally consists of a a red belt and a couple of gold bracelets, though they like to dress up in different costumes from time to time. They enjoy singing and tend burst into song. Upbeat, happy songs mostly, funny enough. Never Alanis Morissette or Anna Nalick, as one may think. It all works well in disguising their true selves. My feelings are dormant on their shiny, hidden home, waiting for its door to be rubbed on, releasing the self impossed cork…

Me gustaría que me gusten cosas que no me gustan. Quisiera querer cosas que no quiero. Cuando ni siquiera sé qué me gusta o qué quiero.

Does it even make sense?

Ok. I feel like one of those people who’s so freaking miserable they can’t be around normal people. Like, I’ll infect the happy people. Like, I’m some miserable, diseased, dirty ex-mistress. Your turn.

I hate being Joey…

I kill them. I kill them and cross them out and by the time I’m down with them my next victim’s already at my hands, marked, as others line up, ready to be sacrifised. I can’t remember when I started, nor the first victim, nor its name. Just that there was a second… and a third… I’ve killed so many. Some where young, with long blond hair and big bright eyes. They smelled like summer. Others where gray and sad and you could cut their tension with a knife. There were also those with pale skin and dark, blue tinted hair, surrounded by a mystery lost. And I killed them. One by one. Sometimes I think I can stop, but then I start doing it again. This needs to end, before there’s nothing left, before they take revenge and kill me instead. And yet, as I write these words, the one I promise to be the last is taking its last breath and dying in my arms.

My vessel so empty with nothing inside. Now that I’ve touched you, you seem emptier still.