A Red, Red River

[Rhaja]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,10,true][atrb=style, background-color: #313838;,true][cs=2] R H A J A [/style]

[atrb=width,480] Age: VI Species: PEGASIS Breed: PAINT Height: 15HH Color: BROWN Markings: NONE THE MASK You just want to own me. You want to push me under your thumb and squash me like a writhing locust until my squeals lead your gorging loins to a coitus so sweet and horrid that fetid cries tear from your bleeding throat. The wind howls in my ears and aside from a frozen bitterness nipping at my obsidian tendrils and whipping them in demented shapes, I can year your voice whispering to me, clamoring gently with that voice of yours seeping drippage of saccharine decay, longing to possess me and doing such an exquisite job of lulling me to a wretched sleep of night terrors and hands wandering in places they shouldn't. It is a caustic resentful fascination that exists between us, a twisting contorted armageddon destruction seething with the soft rot of criminals turned lovers. Do I dare remember my husband and how I so disgustingly pasted the head of someone else upon his shoulders, do I dare remember how I wished the soft kisses fluttering against the longevity of my dark swan neck were bites instead of the faux impressions of murmured adoration seeping through my skin like women's perfume. I longed for smoke. I longed for devastation. I longed for my body to be torn apart in blasphemous sacrilege as I cried out shattered hallelujah, bleeding tigress hisses from between my bruised broken lips so swollen from brutal covetous assault. My existence suddenly taught me the ways of lovemaking and how it differed from person to person. It could be soft and sweet, adoration flowing like an icy gentle brook or stream of breathless fresh air, zephyrs darting across my skin as butterfly wings teased my crevices and lit my skin aflame with a gentle dusky blush. Broken moonlight vigils swept through my mind each night as the tireless musings coursed and rampaged like fiery steeds of apocalyptic upheaval, and I found myself wishing, no, needing the touch of a man who would touch me so sweetly in the decadent filth of blood and beauty, the outcry of anguished screams entwined with the cloying treacle of nightshade ecstasy. Sweat rolling off our skin as brooks off a mountain, rapture on our tongues, our ecstasy an abomination wreaking stirred havoc across the seven circles of this hellish kingdom, I longed for the day when the violence would taste good again, the day when the flowers of carnage bloomed so mellifluously. Our meadow is not one of peonies and orchids, but of bodies and viscous blood squelching beneath our heated locomotion. Unleash a debauched heaven upon me, and I'll do the same for you, except at the end of the night it will be your head on a mantle, not mine. THE HEART I broke them all. Their hopes, their dreams, their pathetic lies in which they enclosed themselves to forever bathe in their inner turmoil, their havoc birthed by their own selfish gains. I chose a different route than the rest. The art of death was what attracted me, beguiled me, enticed me to learn the different pressure points and which veins led to their beating hearts so the possibility of ending their meaningless existences grew like weeds in what was once my precious garden. The thorns of my rose were peeled and plucked until I was as smooth as a virgin's untouched skin. Yes, smooth and deadly. My blood lust grew, but my ability to conceal such barbaric urges sprouted as well, and soon the thoughts of death and disease warped my mind in violent springs of unhinged gushing, hidden by a soft seemingly innocent smile curled upon my lips and indented into my high cheekbones as though my soul had not been tainted. I now wander, and wonder, just how such a virgo like myself had become so corrupted. My boredom increased, and soon the challenges of my hand clasping the scythe of demise became my specialty. A lost cause, I was found, oh so preciously found, and disciplined so harshly that the only trust I became acquainted with was that of the sword clasped within the long lilliputian fingers of my deft hand. They always lay claim that the cure to the malady of sadness lies within oneself. That being said, my heart is a vestigial chasm, where demons gorge their meals and the angels sing their sad songs of loss and torment. Some nights, when the loneliness suffices to calm my hedonistic thirst for blood, I yearn for love, or at least, the definition of such a foreign emotion. I yearn for someone to teach me the ways of such a spell, initially how to use it to fool my enemies, but deep down, I want someone to embed the actual emotion deep within my heart. By the end of my training, it had been implanted within my soul that I could never love, for that would equal weakness, a large threatening hole in the web which I spun to entrap my foes and feast upon their writhing failures like the queen black widow I was. But as the years were kind to me in the ways of assassinations and battles, inside I came closer, ever so much closer to a solitary pathetic death. It was then I decided, I would have to take someone with me to my grave. THE WOUNDS They are filthy, and yet I do not see them as such. Sucking on each other's faces in the hot enchantment of the night, their own inhibitions drown in the swallowing gullet of a lost restraint, dead and gone, consumed so beautifully in all it's loathsome naturalism. It is a full moon, and I cannot help but contemplate my blessings of ill gotten maternity. Erebos writhed against me like the woman he truly was, wearing a man's flesh as he hid his femininity from my watchful stare, and while he turned away in embarrassment I never once blinked to shy away from our putrid coupling. It was gorgeous, it was ugly, it was wrong and pumped full of that taboo I had always lusted for ever since I was born. The night was burning, like the liquid wax I demanded be poured upon my body while he tentatively explored my insides. He could not handle my cries, my howls that sounded like a decapitated pack of wolves, and yet I ate his moans and drank his sighs until I was driving drunk. Nipping at his neck, hands violently grasping his flesh possessively, spreading my venom steadily through his aching veins so harshly that he yelled in pain and yet said nothing when asked if he wanted me to stop. My drive was undying. My momentum was deadly. He had awakened the beast within me that I hardly let out of sight and it devoured him piece by piece. His young boyish face screwed up with erotic tension, I observed his every contour and expression, memorized each erogenous zone and used it to my advantage like a corporeal warlord. I was merciless, unceasing with my ferocious desire, and yet the green liquid fire was met with a cool blue summer's breeze, and it was then that my respect from him bloomed like a lovely white rose. I used him, abused him, took his seed and planted it in my garden from within like a selfish whore hungry for his drops of pearl and the children they would bring. And yet...he treated me as a lover, as his wife who had only just shed her wedding dress and laid down beside him as his reputable, lovely bride. I was not such, of course, but secretly, I adored it. I was not a decent woman. I was an unstable example of insanity gone awry. I thought I had all the answers. But when I clawed the skin of his neck, he merely stroked and kissed mine. Perplexing. Mystifying. Enrapturing. Melting frost of impassioned fever dreams licked skin so aching and drizzled with apprehension, the ardor of this glorious time writhing amidst the sultry midnight air, a newborn babe hungry for a breast to suckle, a starving patheress aching for flesh to weave between her gleaming fangs of ravenous malcontent. Breathing life, pulsating in beautiful waves of freed barbaric inhibitions the queens and kings squirmed in their discerning seats waiting for the sundial to read seven blessed hours after a forebodingly gentle dusk. Whispering secret vows of luscious enticement the warrior spirit drowns all weakness and mouthing the frothing tit of mother nature's gleaming prickled generosity. Their palms massage the hidden earth, whining, crying, shouting their savior's name into the intoxicating air of blatant feminine estrus, saving grace with their hearts and souls, instincts be damned as they swallow their minds in a civilized eye's form of corruption and greed, the concept of their torrid indulgence long forgotten in their copious urges. We are all buried in this fruitful bounty, plumes raised, mouths ajar and eyes sealed shut as bodies sway like pendulums dipped in honey bee sweat. Love and lust, the earth and underworld, things are never as they so conveniently appear. Promises are most precious when they're at your feet in pieces

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