Cig

𝓡epository of 𝓡esidues © words do bleed like a heart (re-posting pieces from my prior account)

[fearholic]

the greatest thing you could ever contribute to the earth is your decaying flesh. you would never be like a nobody like vincent van gogh that had become somebody after death. you will have your bones assembled at the deepest pit, and there, it will be crushed into specks of dust to make way for beings who did not need themselves proven, who did not need the filth of mud like you do. there, you will be forgotten by the time; and you're gonna be a concept not known to anyone, just a mere passing breath suffocated by your own hands. there is no need for me to wish you ill-intent. the world never thought highly of anyone. you're going to be what you always feared. it is enough revenge to have you stumbling on your own feet, succumbing to your own destruction. i don't need to make an effort to lift a finger just to order tragedy on you, and you know this. you are nothing but a future fertilizer to the soils you loathed your whole life.

[fearholic]

My system up to yours, undeniably. Got quite a handful of assets to float your boat, to fuck your mouth-filled of tasteful rancor with my borne oath of loving, to take you to bed, and afterwards, to lull ourselves to sleep. Angels on the ceiling—conjured them to stay up there until dawn, until the night falls ash, until the day fades into something we will regret.

The rambles are on. Speaking in shit riddles stimulates the chemicals in your brain. “The possibility of you outweighs the actuality of anyone else.” A pause. Silence. More of it. In my dreams; the phrase repeats. Possibility of you. The actuality of all else. Possibility. You.

And you find it is ever so troublesome to have your arms clinging into a body that was never mine. You have to kill me in order to outweigh me. A luxury granted that has remained untouched. So on the bed, together, while I sing you a desperation.

Nibble on my soul more, will you? Take yourself down the pit. Bathe in the void to find relativity. Steal and run, aim and maim, discard the residues—come and reveal the nudity of your inclination. I will dress you up with my teeth stains. It doesn't have to be anything else other than that.

But the lies are still on my teeth, of course. Sex in glorification is one of the highest attainments of intimacy except it doesn't end with just a meat to beat nor a stake to bounce on; it's bones creaking in ways the bed couldn't. I can fuck a figure or two—but neither of their backbones were your intellect, neither of the whimpers of their making were the sound of your arguments, neither of their hips were your forces of penetration that laps on mine.

I glorify sex only when the brain stays still as I thrust, they cling to the pleasure and lose it in the process. But not you. You're a different level of sane—we entangled our notions together and took turns to shoot our shots, hitting that G-spot in every home of knowledge, filling every gap & corner & whatnots; either way, that was our kind of sex. The highest kind of loading the whites that equals to the nudity of our spirits. One that keeps me going. One that keeps you hooked. We do not have the kind of normality the majority has. Our sex consisted of clothes with our thoughts panting in anticipation.

But I do want to fuck you sometimes. Raw & unsafe. Like teenagers in a petty puberty experiment. Sometimes, I was even the script writer, the director, and the leading man of that envisioning—no lights and no camera. Positions are all in queue, but it doesn't turn me on as much as how you would open up your anguish. I crave you in a specific way that no other could; but of course, lies on my teeth. Jested several times on bending you over when all I wanted to do was to get deep in your head. Because sex, for me, is when I can ingrain myself into the deepest parts of your consciousness until it learns only to holler my name.

[fearholic]

the prior months, my actions have been unjustifiable and i filled up the days with mundanity and freedom i had taken for granted. i basked in the nothingness and into the surface of matters hoping it would take the initiative to kick me out of the false trance, only for me to pummel deeper down the drains like i've always had. i've been in these trenches before, a silly take, but a drowning mind is just as a good as a dying man. i took the part of being stranded as an indication of my complete end; my hopes & dreams now in the past, my youth slipped and it took every passion with it. quite a sad ending for an ambitious man like me, was i even a man of pride at all?

when empathy left my body, i was no longer quite human. all that's left is a hollow state i'm still trying to fill with more mundane days. quite like counting sheep yet i even forget how to count. i brought all the sorrows in the table & my defeated heart too, all decayed scent and rotting. many people left my life but i had no time to process grief, still, i closed the door. maybe in theory, in illusion, the frame's not attached though, so maybe i still hope for one individual to violate the silence. but it is no use—i do not need saving. either i kill myself or kill a part of me once more, whichever it is, i will no longer be the same.

[fearholic]

I was already familiar with the shapes you morph yourself into, darling. You're a dying star with a grand rebirth and I am nothing but an intergalactic void that eats away your remains—a black hole loving all the cosmic horrors of your unbecoming. Whenever you would explode like a supernova for shining on no-more spheres & worlds & lives, I was always there to take the fallouts; to suck on your grief like a gravitational field; to tear you away from the repercussions of your own scientific innocence. Loving you is becoming the opposite of all your evolution. I am the delay to your advancements; the theory on your facts; the nothing to your something. Always, darling. Beyond space and time.

[fearholic]

It kills you to think nothing in this world belongs to you. Weaved and worn out. Putting yourself a little on edge in hopes of the abrupt salvation coming to graze your shoulder and change your mind about some things. Oh, but you will never change. Stuck in a loop of your own doubts and disappointments and dreads since you believe you are entitled to possess things without getting your hands dirty. You are of naivety, not of reverence. Your purity comes from filth, you are a lousy liar, you want to be a so-called sweetheart but you've got a sour heart. And still, I adore you—despite all. You are a star pretending to be larger than the space you surround with. But you've become a supernova that explodes right in my mouth.

[fearholic]

Mathematical calculations were never my forte but often the golden ratio comes around in every endless cycle of sizing people up as if it is my strongest suit—human scrutinizer, human-izer. This keen sense of curiosity and childlike interest have always approached the getting-to-know stages like escapades with something to gain. RPGs with good endings and bad endings except there are no restarts, no revival points. Suddenly, I am good at counting the number of days in which figures would start to trip over their words and admit I am the game changer, the wise subduer, the conniving jester. In the tip of my finger which traces the measurements of their ribs, I've memorized the number of times when their breathing hitched. Humans are of such vulnerability; otherwise, you are an outcast or an apathetic nobody. Sensations mattered more than anything else, doesn't it? Compatibility requires mutual pleasure, sex requires two bodies pressed together; the inner thoughts tossed at the back of their heads. Oh, but I do not believe in one night stands. Sex, to me, is more than a physical nudge. Sex is everything as it spills the loads, the thoughts, the regrets, and the whims. On the verge of tears is when you will get to know someone better than initial assumptions. And maybe that is why I was not good at mathematical equations. One cannot count the stream of tears. I cannot count the bodies I slept with that I hadn't wept over for.

[fearholic]

My body is spilling youth. I spit it with the blood on my knuckles that did not bled out of violence but out of consequential respite. Apparently, rest is a luxury that isn't granted but earned. She gets to decide whether I am worthy of relief or worthy of being subjected to a petty comparison in the absent face of her first violator. She gets to decide who I shall be, a ghost to chase, and then another day, I was set free. I was a child and a concept and a threat and a thing that grows faster than the speed of light. I am the miracle, the curse, and the thing to look forward to. I am where time ages on the skin, where flesh meets rot, where a kiss is a passing reward and where a love is merely a matter to wrap up for the day. No returns, no look-backs, no anything but forward. I learned that the best way to sift people is to fuck them but never love them because the ache of sex stays in the physical and love is just a crazy notion and our brains are delusional to call it a pain and that evidence should always be something that can be seen on the surface and not what the brain or the heart tells you. So, alright. Maiming bodies is the evidence of this love, because there was contact, because there was cling, there was proof. Though, at the end of the day, it did not mean anything. What difference comes from claws to nails, teeth to bites, anger to forgiveness, youth to non-youth, when everything hurts just the same? She would set up the table for three so I would be reminded of the generosity, and it would remind her of the one that wasn't there. A father of deafening silence and a mother of unwanted presence. I often split the plate in half and shove the remains down to my stomach, and then the cycle repeats. I grew up a year each day. Grew up as a better man than that good-for-nothing, but never a better man to her liking. I grew rebellious and was treated like a threat more than a leverage. She has no need for little things that cannot be bent over in her will. I learned it from her, and I learned the act of flee from my father. My body is spilling youth but it stayed in the chamber like a shell. My soul slithers most of the time, garnering experiences and taking in the world's most exotic flavours. I learned deceit right at my face, learned façades and women and literature and acting. I have been acting for the past 13 years that I wonder if these words were soars of freedom or a holler for help. Perhaps it was off-script, perhaps, the drama has long since ended, perhaps perhaps perhaps. I know I didn't have to make sense in order to be understood. I was taught that there is greater comprehension in the mess; it's just that, most people do not taste the spill. They do not clean up after anyone, but they would like a stain like mine to call it a shoe decoration. Perhaps, someone would kiss me and leave me for it—someone would love me and leave me for it because they cannot offer anything other than tenderness. What even is tenderness, does it hurt good, too?

[fearholic]

My devotion draws a dagger, not quite settled in penetrating the foe—but centered to puncture whatever lies past my ribcage. The idea of you probes my mind like a parasite, hovering in every home of knowledge to be subjected to change as it takes charge to consume my entirety commencing from within, contaminating my senses and eradicating the articles of my rationality.

How these fleshes are made of delicate lumps, instead, bleeds and seeps poetry in every nibbled surface / your teeth, definitely the concept of godhood / as I offer my utmost tenderness, bruised knees in constant worship, clasped fingers in hopes of digging its tips down to your body.

The phantoms reuniting in delight. If I was made to be a soldier, I shall crack your defenses wide. Lay down all your layers bit by bit like a fabric, and make the most out of the remaining time we have to play around the battlefield. But then, If I was made to be a king, I shall not offer the crown nor the throne, but the reputation and its dignity. (I will love you like a peasant, filthy and unruly, pounding like an animal overwhelmed by its primal instincts).

But we are way past the analogies—we require something pristine to get our sordid hands on. We need not love, but what comes after it. Didn't we always begin when things have come to an end? Boundlessly overflowing beyond the measures of the limit.

[fearholic]

by Cig © fearholic

[fearholic]

To relentlessly starve like this—you could tell already. I found the substitutes off-putting (faces after faces, names after names) but the pleasure isn't similar, nothing comes second to our primal agreement, after all. In a certain whiff, I briefly framed your silhouette in the stature of a similar caliber: (a.) An intellectual, (b.) An audacious, (c.) A certified fucktard. But his arrogance wasn't your arrogance. His were a pair of narcissistic irises, and yours? The look of an equal standing. The look of something . . . the look of, indeed, something else. But even so, within these extensive observations, not a hint of where you might be. The distance must've been self explanatory. Inches of our skins would lead me to pressing you against the concrete wall, so I guess this loss—was somehow a safer method to lead you astray from my grasp. But I yearn for you, I yearn for you, my fingers on your jugular (hoping you'd know what it means). Tending the wounds and other ways to make up for the hurt. Are you spilling yet on the graveyard of your choice? You told me the desire to reside in the cemetery of hopeful consolations, and we laughed about it with the same brand of cigarette lingering in our teeth, lit up by the same lighter, from the same pack, from the same pocket, from the same lips. All those indirect contacts, I took pleasure in. But the ache has reached my bones now and I am searching for you. Come back to me, I don't mind even the tiniest portion of yourself, just be back soon, to me, in these trembling arms, or else— Or else.

[fearholic]

(1) stifling setting & three-piece suits, an ambience opulent of tobaccos dipped in cognac that he exudes. a country of deleterious kinds, each street becoming filled with filth, adorned with putrescent human carcasses in a ditch. gouged eyes and calculated slaughters. roadways and road signs flickering in breathing cities. society with pretentious disguise, a brand new paint of plights.

(2) россия никогда не спит. (russia never sleeps.)

(3) he is watching, he is breathing—oscillating between the borderline of a perpetrator’s and an affiliate’s. the backbone of the nation’s self-circulating legislation and forfeiture. indeed, spoken like a true dictator—words of hollow encouragement in disguise to diminish the worth of the mass.

[fearholic]

Maunders in a list. Do not take it to heart.

(1) your silence is a tacit indication, endless categorical calculations to put me within the fabrics of your expectancy, dressed in the same exact tailored proportions leaving no gaps & no failures; because for you, a bird shall fly and never rest, a tale remaining as such, trees in the withering ending point. that's your level of simplicity while i'm the constant opposition.

(2) best better i fuck the agony out of your system and perhaps you'd let me keep the change when you pay me some loyalty. hypocrisy is everyone's language and it belonged to my encyclopedia.

(3) smoke to taste the opium, not to look like a noir film antagonist, you pretentious fuck (points finger at self).

(4) the decline of the heartfelt belles-lettres needed further scrutinization due to the performative writings that have been circulating around. chivalry might not be dead, but the essence of literature is. countless leitmotifs spread like wildfire; reigning no novelty amongst many others, two for the cannibalism, two for the women tribulation, three to five for the rest—ah, god. the blasphemy. ah, goodness. another sacrilegious embodiment. but what goes beyond them if not for its mere repetition, the reprocessed outlooks that still meets the similar ends? what goes beyond it, the retelling? what kind of peculiarity do you speak of if not a single piece of your craft is peculiar?

(5) a certain name haunts you but a grave is a grave and it's caged in the yard. no dreads should seep, there's nothing that would come and get you, darling, so why fret?

(6) don't you want to gouge the prying eyes? like leeches & maggots that constantly crawl its way up your back, they never cease to exist.

(7) my recent catalog of kinks—bondage, gun play, exhibitionism. sounds like an ingredient for a capital execution, this is too fucking funny.

(8) my essence bleeds in you like an influential performance. my intellect in your forgery; my stature in your outline, perhaps—even the length of my cock(iness) too. but where's the thrill in that? going around with excessive speeches is but a projection of what you lacked; sorry not sorry, flightless flock of crows. fraudulent wings can never reach the heights of an egoistic.

(9) to minimize the relentless approach is to hoard all these filthy thoughts; but your face is a reminder why the lust ravages all the rational senses each and every evening.

(10) to be conquered without even being recognized as a conquest—that's the tragedy of such dedication, no? well anyway, i am quite adept at performing the face of a man who yields for romances; but it's mere intellectual performance. empty but thought-indulgent, my heart was indeed at war, though. but most for ambitions.

(11) there's fun in my teeth and i inject the delight in your skin like a morphine, darling. watch it circulate in your nerves and seep along your very veins; the highs are my gift to you.

(12) go feast on my remains like a grand discovery and a fucking self-growth contributor.

[fearholic]

the war stirs in my ribs, heart tyrannized and steered by your plutocratic methodologies as your being was reigned as the wise subduer; caesar & pharaoh in comparison, but a tyrant is a tyrant and i am the system. you spit commands to my chest but i breathe you like a treaty with no beneficial outcomes. your strategy against my acumen; like a mind to a heart, a heart that already belongs to you without its proper acknowledgements.

[fearholic]

the secret brews in my throat, and somehow, you attempted to cradle my trampled heart with words you knew i'd yearn to hear; but what goes around comes around. there was never a line that was drawn, and you have the habit of treading in boundaries much to your privileges. constantly smoothing & tying up loose ends by creating more knots to try and puppeteer my perceptions more effectively, you work as the mastermind here; but a mastermind doesn't feed on the irrational—keeping things in check that are far behind your schemes should be the least expected course of your action; but you dragged the past & spit such sentiments, just who are you behind that cool, demeaning exterior? you treated my being as a laughingstock but you're prolonging the fun of twisting, dissolving & tormenting me out of all the figures you've had that wanted to fuck you. are you playing by favourites, ones that gets on your nerves the best? or perhaps, i've gotten that far deep in your senses in order for you to be acting so inapt to your usual flavors; and you decided a forgery of several cover ups to bring me down in ways you couldn't?

am i the centerpiece? have i made to become one? you, yourself, are spiraling under the rugs of push-and-pulls, hoping the reluctance and the relief doesn't become apparent on your face. the more you probe my wounds to scar me deep, the more i'd spill the streaming blood of this fucked up affection. because i do find you amusing with a face, a thinking, and a reasoning like that. i thrive on the stain, the arrogance, and the narcissistic tendencies too, but you always liked how these things convert into softer opposites under your gaze. you fancy the idea of changing those around, and you ought to raise me as your customizable contraption who bends & breaks for you. but to what extent would it take until you admit these are what your heart speaks for?

that you're only able to step an inch close because you trust me enough not to puncture you with tirades unlike the rest who have completely turned their backs against you?

[fearholic]

cheers to the glasses of hennessy and the liquor courage, your pupils are dilated under the sprays of neon party lights as your chest palpitates on the same beat as the blaring rhythmic system of the sounds. i found you slumped in the bathroom hallway, hair tousled and wet in an attempt to wash off the pill's influence that someone spiked your drink. you wore an agitated expression matched with an artificial ease, the smoke in my cigarette soon reaching your face as i advanced closer to your direction.

your eyes are gradually failing to differentiate things, your morality being stripped like the clothes of the majority in our line of sight. i asked about your state to which you replied with a shrinked grin, "i'm alright, i'm alright," and you sounded melodic in the chaos of the dj's scrapyard of music. next, your hand moved like a claw and you treat my leather jacket like a prize in the glass machine, fisting it with playful force—only for your lips to crash in mine as my cigarette fell completely still on the ground, the flare eventually dying out.

inebriation enters the sensation not because of how much i drank in the same night, but because of how the hennessy lingers in your mouth with your attempt to scrub them off by consuming me like one. i became a dumbfounded redhead in the middle of the hallway with you, and people have this look that matches your impulses. the second you failed to gasp for air to fill your lungs, your knees faltered right in front of me. indicating the completely knockout state, and my heart pounding loudly.

i leaned towards you then. fuck these figureheads who threw a repulsive glance at the poor boys on the floor. i sealed my mouth with yours in my own accord, tasting your tongue for the last time before disappearing into the sea of faceless crowds. i left the venue and lit up another stick to hide whatever my lips may have expressed after the incident.

i used to smoke my cigarettes with guilt, but now i smoke them with your name hammering my ribs.

[fearholic]

and thus, the cyber angel transcends heaven, hell and earth; the expected becoming that makes a saint out of bodily components from rot. a porcelain luster which glistens & listens to such commands, leaving no room for outright defiance and entering the state of hedonistic indulgences. one with wings in wide-spread, legs tangled in golden threads with skin barely touching any surface. limbs subjected to the ridicule of spacious shame, neck bared & throbbing from the nibbles his master had a teeth to sink in. this little angel hollers in sinful gospels, delectable cheeks wet from tears. stains of human slick all over its thighs, bruised outline of the bondage in its joints and mouth and chest berries—

the master is a cruel man; a devil's advocate, but he is a man of taste. capturing the prettiest one alive using the massacre of many kindred spirits beneath the heaven's branches, the weakness to the core. he is a cruel man but his violence is congenial; lustful, boundless, beyond anticipation. the master cracks the whip in the crisp of mortal air, making the doll twitch not in senseless fright but pure expectancy. its wings began to tremble desperately; flapping on each side as the thong laps on its waist, followed by the pathetic pool of scandalous release that stained the master’s boot.

the captured shrinks in despair. mouth watering and peckish of the master’s touch. and whose wish should not be granted? above the heavenly principles and below the seven rings of inferno, the master is much more wicked. fingers tugging at the thick knots, only to fondle the swollen nipples the angel has left to dispense—now, indeed, as reddish as popped cherries and as pink as blooming blossoms. it shook like a wet leaf from a tree, continuously so, as the master strokes the doll in display by the use of the tongue. from shoulders to nape, and nape to throat. the master traces each outline and customized the captured as a shuddering instrument of a mess; hoping the dignity will bleed back to god and sue the master for theft.

[fearholic]

You ought to be ill-defined; and the reason for such a hazy view of your ipseity must've been compliant to your own desire to be known for being unknown. A contradiction to a contradiction. You carry the pride of being nonexistent; away from any societal categories regardless of the weight that it could bring to your sanity. You leave no proof of your existence, no traces of your steps, no remnants nor residues in sight.

(But is this really what you wish for?)

An all-knowing outcast—somewhat untouched by masses, with profound understanding of the world you believe none would've perceived to further comprehend apart your entirety. Is this what you wish for? To strip yourself off of the shallowness of things and live like the same God you loathe in isolation, above all else? You are neither a transient concept nor a divine.

You've come to be an unknown entity to the world,

and seemingly even unfamiliar to yourself.

What else are you besides from being a complete nothing?