He suddenly turned into a four year old curled up on the floor.
No rug, just assassinating cold winter tile. I knew he wanted to reach out to me, but he was unable. Everything inside my very own filth was broken, scared, confused, and consistently fighting for his life. I reached for the collar around his neck, and put my finger through the ring.
I understood it was sick, what I was writing, but there was a dire necessity.
His insides knew nothing about how to just love me, he knew only how to desert, abandon, and fill my entire world with disgrace. Of course, none of this was my own disgrace, some of it was his, some of it was carefully manipulated games. Trying to protect himself, but there was nothing he could do.
I could feel the amount he really loved in my cunt, but unfortunately at this point I was so far away from the actual knowledge.
On one hand I was risking everything, but the names had been changed to “protect the innocent” (not that any of these vorpal bastards were innocent.) The very drugs he needed they would feed directly into his veins if he made himself remotely available. Fighting for his rights as nothing more than shit. Knowing how he really felt, who he really was, but trying so insatiably to cover up his mess over, and over. Eventually to the strict detriment of the rest of his cohorts. To the rest of the community as a whole.
His mother, he never talked about, however many people have secrets mother told them never to tell.
The whores, prossies, bitches, even sophisticated criminals were never enough. He would get what he wanted, satisfy himself, and then walk off with an err of sickly greed.
Next time he lessoned the enjoyment, until lastly he would sound just like my father telling me off, in a very british sense.
Nothing I wanted or desired.
I knew too much (or rather nout at all.)
In fact, I was aware of everything, even after he shut his fucking mouth.
I never stop watching, I never stop caring, I never stop wanting to shove a pair of high heeled boots into his balls.
Just reading this would make him want to kiss me, and kill me, like in that “one song.”
I hear some dumb little whore, slut, bitch, who deserves to be right out curbed like in American History X. I would love nothing more than to shove this bitches face onto concrete curb, and with those same boots.
It’s strange, the progression of the thoughts in my brain lately. I’m consistently attempting to even just mentally protect myself, some jest about this peculiar “unnamed disorder” personally I’m completely disgusted, but laugh at the same time. I’m well aware of what I’m not.
I’m not saying I can’t fight, that’s completely unfair to those who actually do believe I’m real. I am saying, however, that the new wave weapons like the knife-brass-knuckle thing which slices through the mouth to turn the victim into a bloody cheshire cat is not physically real.
To be honest, I’m quite an incredible woman, with my type of maniacal everyone wins.
My four year old filth, how hurt is that little child? I love to subject him to the wretched words, and actions he’s submissively “fond of.” However, I wonder what that child suffers from. I heard once that “taking care of the inner child is a comprehensive matter.” That child should be taken care of. How do I take care of a child so dislikable? Easily, of course.
A beautiful man, hurt by so many people, who he painstakingly divided with sharpened wire.
All of them in the end. I believe in the end he devised them all.
I don’t intend to make myself look “my best.”
This work by LeeLee is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.