I beg for demarcation;
a creation through segmentation.
I want vivisection: dissected for
the sake of life;
a pretty little patchwork girl,
who's gifted vitality through
the violence of nature: lightn
(more)ing
and fire. Two of Mother's most
destructive forces. So day, I swear, she
will sternly unfetter us all.
And when she does it'll be nothing
but a beautiful bliss.
I beg for the mark of Sade;
the wholesome smile of a sadist.
Pale skin pushed to blistering red;
the gorged marks of teeth
like teenage names in birch bark.
Hearts and plus signs;
But I beg for division, perspiration
for Separation.
Bruises and hickies;
blood pulled to the surface.
I beg for the marks of your passion;
the control of my body.
I beg to be used but useful.
Made into an object. Subjective
objectification, I suppose.
I want to feel myself break
under the weight of cunt and skin,
of bodies pushed through fissures;
of bones and pelvic thrusts;
I want social taboos and achy thighs.
I want to crumble into jagged pieces.
I want to reclaim the violence that has been
brought against my body since I took my vow of
fecundation. Detested, socially,
but excited none the less,
I dream of depravity,
all those sweet and silky
means of torture that even my imagination
can but only salivate for.
I want you to beat me,
like the men of the world would
if given an opportunity or chance.
I want distillation.
Addition through subtraction,
the transference of one pain to another.
I want to watch myself become evanescent,
melted into sheets with skin splayed open
and raw. I want to disappear into oblivion.
Pushed so deep down into submission that
only your gentle coaxing calls can lift my head.
I want my pain as our pleasure. (less)
