Work Text:
Bela Dimitrescu,
How do you endure?
How are you (so still)?
How do you hunger?
How much must you feel (and never show)?
How much will you love (if so)?
How many times would you do me, just to prove you could?
Will you strike me, over and over, let my black blood trickle over my thighs as you quietly drink me in? And as you do, will I wonder what devotion you call this?
How deep will your love reach?
Will it penetrate my innermost flesh (my cervix, my marrow)?
Will it pull my lids apart, brush my lashes away, prod at my fleshy folds and finger my ducts?
Will you tell me who I am (without you)?
Do you ever whittle away at pale flesh and pretend it’s mine?
Do you ever yank your fingers through red-slick hair and imagine me instead, tugged out and opened before you (only) as you rake through my damp strands?
Do you ever stack bodies upon bodies in cellars and on floors, thinking of my warm one dragging itself through the halls-- my life splattering onto your ice-cold feet as your lungs contract with that minute, delighted breath you never waste?
Do you tear through young hymens day by day and think about mine, how it split around your finger and I contorted into your open hand, naive, fluttering my wet lashes in agonizing coquetry, and you watched, studying the way I broke myself for you?
Do you ride man-things and maidens eternally, fucking live corpses and raping sputtering wings that curl in on themselves?
Only to tilt your head and watch once again?
Does your filthy hair slither and slide under your bloody hood, writhing and twirling around yet another victim as you look on, bored, until something reminds you of me?
Are you compelled by violent death and propelled by my tender love?
You slice my friend’s sternum open; you fill her with blood and flesh and rot.
You slice my cunt open; you fill me with come and saliva and piss.
She screamed.
I don’t.
I love and love and love,
And you take,
And you fuck,
And you kill.
How do I endure (your touch)?
How am I (still breathing)?
How do I hunger (for more)?
How much must I feel (and incessantly show)?
How much will I love (forever)?
How many times will I crawl back, just to prove I could?
Will I strike myself for you, over and over, let my black blood pool in offering as you wordlessly look away?
And as I do, will I wonder what devotion you call this?
I am not pure, not innocent, not holy-- your hands that stained me and your sickle that fucked me did not make me a martyr, did not advance my faith nor my virginity.
You took the girl I was before and you fuck the girl I am now.
You smear the ravished arousal of my cunt over your mouth;
you consume me like your maggoty carcasses, you paint your lips with me like your beloved lipsticks in that deep, bruising black.
Do you cock your head and curl the blades of your fingers into my cunt again?
Exhale puffs of my come, lean back on your throne.
Watch as I slice my thighs with your sickle.
Bela Dimitrescu,
Do you (long)?
For me (like I do)?
Do you twist your hand into the gaping crevice of your throbbing breast, like me-- feel your (perfectly absent) heart twitch and jump and howl in your warm embrace-- and touch yourself?
Do you ask yourself?
Do you ask yourself why?
Have you affixed me a million hymens and several hundred cunts?
A dozen extra wombs stitched, warped, between the vulvic blades of my molested shears?
Have you affixed me another heart,
To fill with the stolen ventricles of a girl you raped before?
Have you grafted onto me spare nipples that leak when you graze-- sewn multitudes of urethras behind my eyeballs that weep discharge for you?
Do you smell the stench of my foulness?
Do you smell the stench of my cunt?
Do you smell the stench of your soul?
And still I slink back to your threshold, don’t I?
On bare knees rubbed raw to pearl, skin pilled like worn velvet and capillaries dangling like skinned worms-- I pull myself over polished stone and leave my drying devotion for your handmaids to scrub.
Do you simply step over it, through it, feel the crusty tack of me cling to your heels pathetically like a parishioner on your soles?
I press a trembling ear to your large vertebrae and hear nothing (as ever).
Silence.
Thick as my congealed blood. It skins the wood, gums the hinges and clots in the keyhole.
On the other side, I give you a hand: poised, hovering, nails faintly crusted with blood, posed elegantly above an instrument’s (tight) twanging strings-
Do you catalogue me, Bela?
Am I simply a cunt in your ledger?
A specimen pinned beneath glass (and your thighs)?
Do you measure my pulse in quiet fractions, note the viscosity of my matted blood and my come on your cheek, watch and take and take until those big feelings make sense to you?
Do you file it all away in that library of your mind, bookmark each splatter and bruise and stain on your bedsheets with matted clots of my pubic hair?
I see you always in your study-- ink staining your fingers (not my blood).
Your quill scratches, your head dips, your fingers twitch and your mind flashes and walks into my body.
When you touch me, it is an autopsy of my pre-dead corpse--
You caress the fleshy walls of my labia, you drag your razor tongue over my clit, you grind knuckles into my underbelly and savour the bile on my lips.
You worry my muscle from tendon, you peel my dermis back and you peer into my womb, prodding my eggs one by one till they soften, and finally mold to the shape of your nails like little balls of clay-- your future maidens pre-broken in their creamy shells.
You press your sickle into my thighs, you press your breasts into mine, and yet you never return-
What are you, Bela?
What am I?
Without you?
You shoved me to the window once. You held me, legs up and chin low-- sniffling and ovulating under the sour-milk white. You spoke to the sky casually; you told the stars of how I fluoresced under your suffering.
My veins grew obedient and black that night; my breath solidified onto my goosebump-riddled flesh and morphed into a second exoskeleton.
If I shattered here, would you sweep me up and hide me under your bed (wet from me)?
Would you arrange my pieces, size by size, stick them together with vials of my come and blood, running the sharp edges against your desk?
Would you press a shard onto your tongue, just to see if the taste of me has changed?
Do you dream of me in your forever afterlife, Bela?
Do you cruise into fog-choked forests, swinging scalps of skinned lycans,
flagellating savage beasts with your sickle-- preserve me as your final specimen?
Was I your first?
Do you tire of me and my (maturing) body?
Do you tire of providing me a paradise, night by night--
one tenth of my worship, one tenth of my placenta, the rest decay--
and finally transfigure into a vengeful god?
Love to your molested zealot,
Lust to your unholy proselytizer.
You baptize me in my own amniotic fluid, lay me to sleep in my own milk, allow me to suckle on your thumb as a newborn believer.
Would you carve your answers into my bones if you would not speak them?
Would you annotate your silence along my ridged spine in jagged scars, circle my miserable cunt with your glittering sickle and underline it with teeth?
When you are done-- if you are ever done-- if you will ever be done--
Will I become nothing, once again?
Nothing, without you?
Nothing?