Oh, what’s that? Another freewrite? You bet.

It was the shave of early morning at the pier. Cloudy skies, the kind he liked. They tumbled softly over him like folklore; like a delicate caress.

He loved this place; a haven where he could help his new found friends; a family.

Every Sunday they would carry heavy containers on wheels through the sand. They contained knowledge, a practiced labour of love. He always liked to grab the heaviest one. That way, no one else was burdened with it, but the particular wagon of his choosing had an unfortunate pairing of front wheels not suitable for beach travel. The cart hit a small mound, and no matter how hard he struggled, pushing, ever pushing, the vechile had fixed itself with very little giveway. The shore was nearly bare of people traffic, all except one family who happened at that very same moment to walk by. They ask him if he needs a hand, to which he exasperatedly accepts. Togther they push the boat to shore. “People are so beautiful.” He thinks.

Quiet warm thoughts, if only for a moment.

He admitted it, there were some routines he liked; some he missed; the crosses. It was nice to have a day to look forward to; a planned day; faces to look forward to seeing; the same ones every week with a bit of rough around the edges. They stayed.

Roxanne was an older woman; kind. A frizzy pop of loosely locked grey and white zig zagged atop her head, several strands trickling down her smiling eyes. She was his friend. He treasured this.

She spoke of a couple of kids from Saudi Arabia who were crucified for their blog posts. People still do this to one another?

The crosses.

I am so fragile. The world, everyone I’ve ever met loves the dark, fatal open chest cavity, ripped apart mangled mucus putrid removal of animal genital parts, organs rotting, chainsawing mutant zombies as a convient excuse to kill without remorse, squeezing their insides, shock value clusterfuck, raw, the dark dark dark. Everyone wants to fuck everybody else. I was a bad kid, teaching cursewords to younger kids, drawing on the walls, always getting into trouble.. little did they know on the inside I was a sensitive boy who cried nearly everynight because he knew one day he would grow up and his parents would die.

I like.. music that moves my soul. I like snow, and warm fluffy blankies as opposed to blankets, pertaining to a softer, homely innocence; a joy independent from the red and black shades lining the tingle of arousal; free from gutteral thoughts that came later. I like stories told before bed about magic, and brave little girls, and overcoming unfathomble odds, and love; unconditional love in a world where there are no sex slaves, no cruxifictions; where there are spectrums of light that can feel things, and dance in great whitegolden liquid buildings, an unearthed energy contained and yet, not. I like Dad hugs, when, he was alive. I liked being a child, I still am. I am boring.

The memory of mistrust; being outcasted; it stains; beet roots; the jagged lines run deep. They don’t dissapear in a night, in a year, in a life, and the threat of loss in the event of doubt only strengthens the weakness. A damaged mind cannot be mended with highway warnings. Understanding reveals a path that leads to lasting; to see through the faults; to encourage change but not as an end all. Leave your march at the door. This isn’t death or victory. A love: unconditional, cuts through corporeal bindings. Sometimes an injured heart is irrational, angry, attention grabbing, afraid, screaming out, but of it all, through the recycling doubts, the trying trying tryings, ups and downs, love is forgiving. It grows a looping birth on both sides. Love is patient.

It’s strange, perhaps a bit morbid, but suicide has increasingly become one of my most comforting thoughts. It started at a young age and grew, bounced, and dribbled about the head as each aspect of myself that I loved trickled away; as my loved ones died; as my dream to find my true love became more and more unlikely. A death brought exactly when, how, and through the means of my choosing; an illusion of control; an ounce of freedom when all other aspects of life are tethered is a calming almost gleeful thought. “It’s okay if things get bad. This option is always here, and I have the complete flexibility to access it whenever desired. Even the consideration alone is a happy sensation. Just a mouthful of pills plus alcohol, which is abundently easy to come by in these lands. Make sure the measurements are lethal. Don’t want to accidently awake. That’s it. Eternal sleep. No more mornings. No more alone. No more burdening anyone with the physicality of my existence.”

I want to stroke your clit. I want to rub up against you like a snake; like a wolf; like the beast you’ve waited your life for.

I want to fuck you real.

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