It was ruptured. Not my genitalia, but my quintessence. I wanted to tell her how much I missed her and how much I loved her but I missed most, having her around, connecting with the essence of my subsistence. She was cold. Colder than the carcass of him, the boy who died earlier than he should have. He was pronounced dead even when his soul still lived amongst us, feeding on our corpuscles through torturous yet strenuous shackles that I couldn’t be liberated from. Smothered and congested with the doctrines of provocative fornication towards anybody who was lustful. It ruptured me, my oesophagus, my vagina, my vehemence, my consciousness, my dexterity.
She was an embodiment of the dybbuk that extinguished my every contemplating moment. But, the blood that she fed on, it was not that from the veins, but from the heart. She broke my arteries, independently and unrestrictedly, until I screamed in excruciating despondency. It was done. The fresh blood was utilised to feed her, as she estranged and disrupted my pudenda. The bright red, dense liquid oozed out of my uterus as she imbibed and ingurgitated my lineage. The blurred lines of desecration and gluttony caused my existence to be catechised. The fresh blood, kept her alive.
The bubbly crimson secretion from my genitals gave life to the beastly existence of my egos. The personalities I no longer was afraid of. The manic whore and the corwardly celibate. They were both fragments of the dynamism of my psyche. Just as I began unquestionably surrendering to her, she asphyxiated me as she bolstered on the fresh blood.
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