Nightly visitor

In my sleep? You coward. Attack a man while he slumbers.

Red blood dripping from my right nostril.

How close were you this time? In my nightmare I could sense your presence. Do you no longer attempt to conceal your footfalls?

A coward and hasty. Are you afraid?

Is this irony? Can fear by afraid? Anxiety anxious?

Red blood dripping, staining the white cotton sheets.

I no longer love you. And you want to punish me for that. I no longer need you, and you don’t want to be left alone. You would rather kill me than let me be rid of suffering.

Coward. Bastard.

Stalking, scheming, insidious toxic parasite.

I repeat and hear it well; take heed of these last words of mine. I speak them, standing over your unmarked grave in the secret place where I have buried you, countless times in my brightest hopes. ‘You are a fucking coward. Nobody loves you anymore. You belong in the wasteland, forgotten, in an unmarked grave, endlessly and mercilessly trodden upon.’

I long for the day I uncover you, reveal your chaotic and frantic fury, and take my two hands, wrap them gently, softly, almost lovingly, around you, embracing you, as you thrash about. I dream of the day I suffocate the life-force from your evil gasping. Silence, make still, your aimless thrashing.

Until next time. Until tonight. Until after the red blood has dried.

One thought on “Nightly visitor

  1. Yes, another ‘quite a night’. Visited by the Demon Fucker. I doubt, as your words, surely not intended to imply, you ever loved Him. No! You never loved Him. Who could! But, then, child eyes did not hate Him. Even as you knew not His intent, to ruin you, you did not love Him. You neither knew, so young, to hate Him. You had so much positive, passionate intent for Life, as all young life does, or should, and like a virus riding the glow of Life the Demon Fucker had already invaded your space, a tiny dark dot into the bark of your branching ascending tree, and the torment came in, perhaps during rain. He will return, especially in the night, say 3 a.m. He will always be the Demon Fucker, never to settle as in a last fight with you. No, never on the field of battle, face to face. He’s a terrorist, hounding to death in darkness, planting bombs, instilling poison into one’s drink, always remote, dividing one’s powers, biting like wolves at the vital flanks of the expos ed legs. Destroying rest, chasing relief from torment. A very smashing of the brain! You must be determined to resist, for ever if He does not go away. If He does not leave you alone. You must Resist. Or die. I hope, do hope, you survive to sever His fucking head. Show me, good son, suffering son, I will be so joyed, on a platter, on a board, in a shovel the fucking head of him.

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