This is the last time

This year the journal writes itself. I'll sit back and watch as the autonomous fingers move. I'll work around the thoughts that try to work themselves in.

I'll only think of one thing and watch as my fingers weave you into every line, every word, and every letter.


[Suggestion: Go back down the timeline. There are two years in this thing.]

Oh the (c)rhy(i)mes.

Cut the cord/Snap the line

And she keeps fishing for eyes with her lipstickbait and her shortskirthooks. Curved, sharp, rusted, metal hooks down the throats and in the lips and gums and tongues and cheeks.

She'll reel you up from your watery depths. Ripping skin and tearing flesh-

along
the
w-a-y.


Taste that blood,-
-was the worm worth it? -was it good? -did you like it? -do you want another?

She's made you crave that blood. No use for worms, only hooks. Shiny and metallic, floatingdanglingswinging in the water above your head. Open your mouth, bite down and feel it pierce your palate. Feel the blood flow into your mouth.

That's what you want, isn't it?

She's got hooks buried in your skin, all over your body. (Little marionette.) She's got hooks in your bones, down in your cartilage. (Little puppetboy.) She's got your tendons wrapped up- nerves tied up- veins wound up- around her hooks. (Little doll.)

Pull the strings; dance doll, dance.


Good-
-boy
-bye

Goodboy[e].

Disinter

I used the pick axe (motivation) and shovel (inspiration) that you so graciously handed me, and I started digging. Concreteslabs (bones) were hard to get through, and I think I punctured a couple waterlines (veins).

I dug and dug and dug and dug and

dug in search of the light you knew existed. Some new consciousness I never percieved. Or so you thought. Cuts and blisters made way for scars and callouses. (Sorry about the blood on your shovel.)

Two days later I reached a burial ground in one of my ventricles or atriums (I was never good with anatomy). No headstones or flowers or graves, only crumpled up balls of paper littered the ground. They were stained with the words I was once too young to understand. Long lost but never forgotten.

I moved on. (It wasn't a bright place.)

It seemed I'd been digging for months when I suddenly




crashed! through a wall and landed in a fading bed of coals. They weren't even hot enough to burn me.

Could this be what you were talking about? Did I find my treasurous light?

Yes.

This fire was my light,

Cold-Blooded Invertebrate

You don't seem to feel much. I wonder if you'd notice your back cracking along your spine up to your skull and shattering around your brain. Or maybe my fingers thrust down your throat in search of your lungs.

Driving, charging, pushing through your skin. Your chest.

Would you notice me pulling at your ribs as if they were levers? I wonder if I can make you dance. Digging through your flesh and muscles. Getting my fingers tangled in your veins. Where is the heart?

Where is your heart?

The flash is on. Get ready.

I'd wrap circles of sentences and cycles of syllables right around your head, honey. Repeat, refrain, repeat. refrain.

I'd dance on your tongue with mine, and not in the fashionable sense, no. You wouldn't enjoy.

And the axe would end up falling, like it always does. Splitting our words down to letters and screams to whispers. And what sense or service does a barely audible string of random parts of the alphabet have in a fight?

Let's do this again sometime.

Dynamite fists with blood on her lips

She fell from the sky like an atom bomb nightmare. I never saw her coming. Heat-seeking blood-thirsty little bitch-missile.

We've had so many shotgun blast conversations with words for bullets and hearts for targets.

And I'd have to say, you're an impressive marks(wo)man.

Wrapped in red and sarcasm

"Like every poking needle is trying to become a vein,
All these wires just want to replace your brain."

I just want to feed it.
It's instinct.
Feed the hunger, feed, feed.
Need, want, need fuel.
Nothing personal, just primal.

Yeah, you'll feel it. But don't worry, you'll be dead soon.

This is an inferno. The blaze of hunger. It's burning a hole in the pit of my stomach. I can feel the flames in my veins. My muscles are on fire. Feel the burn.

Feed the burn. I've got to




got to feed the fire.