Dear Shit,
In order to love, you have to be willing to destroy yourself. I´ve never wanted to love you. I wanted to set myself free from my head and oppressing strains. The chains strangling my soul and motion. I just wanted to fuck you and learn how it would feel to have a fucking vaginal orgasm. You were the object for quick consolation, a voiced dildo, metallic and heartless. A precise engine regulated the exact moves and pressure.
Dear Shit, I never saw you like my Apollonian shape. You always knew it, I despised your rough boldness, that thick skin covered in muddy shit. I was flying higher than anybody you could get for sale back then. Silly stupid vulnerable fading freaking women were queuing at your doorstep. A good collection of funny hollow shapes, all of them suffering from low self-esteem and depression, rejected at first call, and then, out for auction, out for the best bidder. Back then, in the midst of absolute vulnerability, dear shit, you caught their pussies off guard, getting wet while tearing. Your requirements to be the fucking kind were low: a juicy pussy, what does it matter if it has a name. So were mine. A dick, a shitty man next to it. Ugly and shameful, what does it matter if it has a fucking name. I was full with fury, self-destroyed with fairy-tale shams, desperate in a den full of mud, motionless, paralysed at your massive size. Your stick bit me, poison all over me gangrening my eyesight. Rotten beauty at disposal, dispossessed from a topless heart, the pain could not be stronger. It couldn’t feel your dick injecting shit inside my cave. Blood was flooding my grief. My body could hardly feel the sting, it was willing to test the depth of grieving, how much agony would it take to die aching. What does it matter if it was one heartache or an unable stroke the cause of the casualty? I did not pay much attention to the origin of the bleeding –maybe a miscarriage, late periods or old vaginal bruises-, I just wanted to experience, to test all the procedures to stop the fucking haemorrhage. I was dying in a dense hollow thick muddy dwelling, separated from my steady mind, with ropes knotting my throat. What does it matter if it was the strangled mind, the bleeding heart or the final knock which brought along a frigid corpse?