iron seductress

People sought thrill.

Some people rode those crotch-rocket motorcycles, the kind that went so fast it felt as though you were flying — with those loud, proudly roaring motors, the apparition of a devil left floating in the air, gassy and superior as it flooded nostrils. Others jumped off of cliffs, adopting the single second of illusionary freedom from the elements themselves, the pounding in their chest screaming the evidence of their own control, ironically mingling with it’s very opposition, the peculiar serenity in belonging entirely to the gravitational force of the earth; no plea, science or second-thought strong enough to alter the circumstance.

I had a thrill myself: a release, an escape, a fortress completely mine. She was metallic and seductive, an ever-anticipating friend who was never an answering machine, who failed to judge, who adored your very return to her titanium arms. She was the blade; the one I hid faithfully between the two bashfully separated ivory tiles in my bathroom, where she fit perfectly, smiling in her secrecy. She was beautiful, with my back pressed up against the pristinely painted white door, the pounding of their screams rippling in the heels of my feet upon the cold stone. She was sophisticatedly available, explicitly simple, and entirely generous. She presented herself without a limit, a constrain or a cautionary; she smiled a mouth full of pewter teeth, all sharp and lovely.

Her services were offered to the broken, the blatantly confused, the entirely out-of-sorts, the consequently powerless. She provided a twisted fairy tale of self-control; that in their own self-destruction, her servants found an ephemeral supremacy, a rule of the warring wasteland of their own souls, a temporary halt of the slow, yet all-at-once demolition from each and every angle of possible target. I held her there between my fingertips, watching her undress slowly in the dim light, her curves glimmering in allure, in temptation.

“I’ve missed you, beloved Cyrus.”

I had convinced myself that proper function and survival was not contingent on her, that she did not own me, I hadn’t sold my soul away into her bonds of eternity; but I was wrong, she had: she became a late-night pub, a burning cigarette, that last pint of eternal gin — the inescapable, adoring evils. She danced along my skin, seducing me, teasing, laughing in the empty hollows of her eyes. Finally her lips found me, slipping through my skin.

“Harder, Cyrus.”

A siren’s whisper, foully sweet between her rotting lips; I’m as weak as a stolen sailor, victim of the sea, befallen of her devils, she dives deeper into the canvas of my arms, red waves rolling over the bow of the ship.

My mind is a vessel adorned with holes, her gashes wide as the horizon. The oceans have claimed her. My heart is a tower garlanded with demolition notices, riddled with poorly splattered Xs in clementine, declaring my impending fall. My soul is forest refreshed from a dip in a gasoline bank, a match hovering above her.

I plunge greedily into the depths, I joyously swing the wrecking ball, I happily drop the match —

For my own doom impends, my own pain ensues, my own misery precedes; they shackled every part of me but one, they robbed me of every dignity but this, and so in my execution, I volunteer to pull upon the lever.

When you’ve been stripped bare of every single thing, the desire to be in control of at least one single thing — even if that sole remnant is your own death — you are quick to claim power of it.

People sought thrill.

Some people rode those crotch-rocket motorcycles, the kind that went so fast it felt as though you were flying — with those loud, proudly roaring motors, the apparition of a devil left floating in the air, gassy and superior as it flooded nostrils. Others jumped off of cliffs, adopting the single second of illusionary freedom from the elements themselves, the pounding in their chest screaming the evidence of their own control, ironically mingling with it’s very opposition, the peculiar serenity in belonging entirely to the gravitational force of the earth; no plea, science or second-thought strong enough to alter the circumstance.

I had a thrill myself: a release, an escape, a fortress completely mine. She was metallic and seductive, an ever-anticipating friend who was never an answering machine, who failed to judge, who adored your very return to her titanium arms. She was the blade; the one I hid faithfully between the two bashfully separated ivory tiles in my bathroom, where she fit perfectly, smiling in her secrecy. She was beautiful, with my back pressed up against the pristinely painted white door, the pounding of their screams rippling in the heels of my feet upon the cold stone. She was sophisticatedly available, explicitly simple, and entirely generous. She presented herself without a limit, a constrain or a cautionary; she smiled a mouth full of pewter teeth, all sharp and lovely.

Her services were offered to the broken, the blatantly confused, the entirely out-of-sorts, the consequently powerless. She provided a twisted fairy tale of self-control; that in their own self-destruction, her servants found an ephemeral supremacy, a rule of the warring wasteland of their own souls, a temporary halt of the slow, yet all-at-once demolition from each and every angle of possible target. I held her there between my fingertips, watching her undress slowly in the dim light, her curves glimmering in allure, in temptation.

“I’ve missed you, beloved Cyrus.”

I had convinced myself that proper function and survival was not contingent on her, that she did not own me, I hadn’t sold my soul away into her bonds of eternity; but I was wrong, she had: she became a late-night pub, a burning cigarette, that last pint of eternal gin — the inescapable, adoring evils. She danced along my skin, seducing me, teasing, laughing in the empty hollows of her eyes. Finally her lips found me, slipping through my skin.

“Harder, Cyrus.”

A siren’s whisper, foully sweet between her rotting lips; I’m as weak as a stolen sailor, victim of the sea, befallen of her devils, she dives deeper into the canvas of my arms, red waves rolling over the bow of the ship.

My mind is a vessel adorned with holes, her gashes wide as the horizon. The oceans have claimed her. My heart is a tower garlanded with demolition notices, riddled with poorly splattered Xs in clementine, declaring my impending fall. My soul is forest refreshed from a dip in a gasoline bank, a match hovering above her.

I plunge greedily into the depths, I joyously swing the wrecking ball, I happily drop the match —

For my own doom impends, my own pain ensues, my own misery precedes; they shackled every part of me but one, they robbed me of every dignity but this, and so in my execution, I volunteer to pull upon the lever.

When you’ve been stripped bare of every single thing, the desire to be in control of at least one single thing — even if that sole remnant is your own death — you are quick to claim power of it.

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