#wrong about being right

[savageleewriting]

Parts I Like

She's playing Spin The Bottle with a loaded gun. 

And she likes the way lightning tastes on her tongue. 

This is the girl. This is the person who'll make it happen. This is the human embodiment of kinetic motion and some sort of strange new emotional response that falls right in between Love and Rage.

She's burning your house down, and laughing. She's eating you up, and not even caring. She's a superhero without a world to save.

She comes dancing into the day, all lighthearted kicks to the balls and giggling fits of firepower. She smells like all of tomorrow's sunshine. 

Me? I'm just waiting for her, back at home.

I'm thinking about the last thing she said as she stepped out the door.

"Death to the powers that be, baby," she purred as her hotrod engine started up with a bang. "Some day this whole city's gonna go up in flames. Some day soon." 

She smiles viciously. 

I like that part.

[smallhatlogan]

I hate people on here everyone is wrong you are all wrong nobody is right go away only logan is right about anything

[savageleewriting]

Too Much Love On Tape

She had tapes and tapes, old black video tapes, piling up in the back room, of Spider Snuff; hours and hours of arachnid copulation that ended, inevitably, in the death of the male just after the point of orgasm, or whatever spiders did when they got off. 

"They're my favourite sort of love story," she explained to me, watching me squirm uncomfortably in my chair as I watched the spiders squirm uncomfortably on the screen. "The kind that ends in cannibalism." 

All love is a form of cannibalism; I read that once, somewhere, in some book about romance and mystery. All love is a form of consumption; devouring something, consuming it, taking it in, taking it on…

Yeah, the back room is full of things nobody wants to know about. Shirts with strange stains. Underwear that's been worn a little too long. The hollowed out shells of giant insects that ruled these lands back when humanity was still a distant dream of tiny, cave-dwelling prototype mammals. Big, hungry bugs, that grew monstrously large on the oxygen-thick environment of ancient earth. She uses the shells as ashtrays, and lousy conversation pieces. She loves a lousy conversation. 

[savageleewriting]

Murdering Hearts (For Breakfast)

If you became a hero, I'd be a villain just to clash against you. If you ever choose to be cymbals, I'd be drumsticks. I'll rattle you, splash hard against the solid of your surface.

If you ever become a vampire, I'll wander over to your home in the dead of night, nothing but broken crosses in my pockets. I'd put my heart into your hands, and let you suck me dry. 

If you went out walking, I'd follow you around like a cloud of mosquitos, buzzing in your ears and supping on your bloods! I'd never be able to leave you alone, and I'd wind up flattened against the palm of your hand. I'd be the goo between whatever immovable object you, the unstoppable force, came into conflict with.

"It fucking hurts to love you; or at least, it should."

You smile in that way that suggests that you don't even notice that I'm here, and I don't blame you. If I were you, I'd have trouble seeing a world outside myself. If I were you, I'd probably arm myself with guns and knives, and go out burning and raging against imperfections like mankind and all their shitty little societies. 

Fingers on triggers, on pulses. Listening for bombblasts and secret omissions; the kind that lovers make late at night when they're exhausted but still too fixated on each other to stop. 

I'm still too fixated on you to stop. 

I said it hurts to love you, but love isn't a regular thing like pain. Nah. Love comes when it wants to. You know what they say. Love comes, in spurts.  

[savageleewriting]

She's My Word For Self-Destruction

Her heart trembles in my hands, like the wingbeats of a little baby bird. 

I've been in love with self-destruction for so long, it seems like we've always been together. Her teeth in my throat, her drugs in my veins. I call it her; self-destruction has always felt like a feminine force in my life. 

She's in me, she's of me. She's in the heart of every fire I light, she's in the cold pit of silence at the centre of ever shot I take. She smiles like a bullet in the heart, and she speaks like a slit throat sliding open.

She takes her time with me, killing me like cigarettes or a bad relationship. She puts ground up glass in my belly, and she wraps barbed wire between my teeth. I spit her name when I try to speak; I spit her name in blood on the floor.

Here's a little secret about me that's true:

I don't think fire's as beautiful of smoke.

Make of that what you will.