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cOme oN, fOrbid mE

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bY < vOyA >

“I whose soul writhed from morning to night,
in the mere quest of itself.”
– SAMUEL BECKETT

I’m having trouble understanding what this all means.
Where I am. How I can leave. Seriously >
sound instincts escape me in such a place.

I mean, I’m fine and then all of a sudden > I feel like this. I trust you. No I don’t. Look at what you’ve done here. My neck. Just look. The cut so little I know > but you bite it again and again. And I force you down harder. Why do I do that? Your skin so soft where I push at you, my hands not shaking at all. And in my mind I’m so separate from this. Safe somewhere else but still feeling you so heavy on me.

This cut is opening up.

I can taste the dirt here you know.

(Silence)

No, no > don’t close your eyes. Not in the darkness. We’re out here after all because of you. I mean, I know this place > how the sky just effects everything. The moon too. Night terrors if you’re not careful. We’re lost here as much as the trees are lost. The shadowlands just everywhere. Ah, Manie sans délire. Madness without delirium. Right now, that’s what it is. A bit of Devil’s Playground in the night > old bones long gone.

Those women, remember?
Seven I think. In 51 days.

They still had their hearts though.

> > >

This is how I exist now.
I can hear myself you see. Finally. A voice at least.
And I can see my clothes just where you left them.

(Whispering)

Look. That highway. Can you see it? Those people standing there. Just off the edge, off the bitumen. Well five of them right now. Four men and a woman. A little scattered.

You know, I remember always > people there like that. No matter what time. I could drive through like all the other travellers and well > I could never stop here. Not like you. They scare me you see. Those watchers. Such solitary people, sadness carved into them.

I mean, what’s come before
could come again. This land could just eat you up and nobody would ever bloody well know. Not till it’s too late.

Ah, the heat shimmers the air. Tree branches white against the sky. I wish you’d return to me. Damn you! Tell me what I’m supposed to do now. That may seem impossible. But it can’t be > can it?

(Silence)

Listen to me > my neck is bleeding more now. I just want to see your face. Look, you can put your hands around my throat. I don’t mind. Just damn well come back. It’s too confusing here by myself. My feet are pushing against something > I can feel that now. And my neck. There really is something wrong with it.
Seriously, everything feels different.

> > >

> Please, what is it I’m looking for?
I’ll show you. Right now if you like.
> No, tell me what it is first.
(Silence)
> You’re driving too fast.
Trust me, we’ll be fine.
> No, slow down.
I said, trust me.
I know what you want.

> > >

Ramming my mouth so hard that I puked all over your cock. Not very nice at all really > but these are the games. This is what we do, right?

Me laying here so quietly. Thinking about just this. Out here, you know, where you left me. My fucking neck a damn mess. I’m understanding more now you see. At least it’s the truth isn’t it? I couldn’t tolerate it otherwise. You slapped my face, fucked and fucked me, cut me open > those dark little buildings imprinted on my mind. You know, the ones edging the highway. Even with my eyes finally closed they were still there. The people too.

But then, for a moment, I just hurt until everything was > well, nothing at all.

A solitary climax. An irresistible compulsion I chose not to ignore >
but it explains nothing. I know, I know. If I’m not careful I could slip into a very bad state of mind.

But I can’t control what I’m doing and
I can’t control what’s going on.

You see >>>
I’m in Truro again. Not Truro Massachusetts. Another Truro. Somewhere else. Just as deathly though. Lots of dead women between them. These Truro towns > so many gruesome fucking lonely murders … And you brought me here, to this one, to this screwy outback desolate one because > well I don’t know why.

Ah, the dead.
Can my life go on?

This just kills me >
Self-portrait as an afterthought.

You groom your victims well.

> > >

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