School Girl Complex

And then I wonder, how do they get me?

Their naked knees, those pleated short skirts, the way they walk, my imagination that flows. It’s fun to reationalize all this, even though I know it’s all deeper than it seems. Oh, but I would fuck them with their clothes on, that’s for sure. And maybe in some level I don’t want to know why.

It’s funny when they are about to sit on the grass, with their legs crossed and forget to hide their panties from my eyes. I enjoy that small fraction of second before they cover it: sometimes it’s black, some times white, sometimes light blue and other times I can only imagine. Imagine the smell of their inner thighes, the touch of their soft skin and nearly those hairs yet to burst.

How much fun would they have with my violence. If I hurt them, would they ask for more? Will I be able to get to them one day? I get jealous of their boyfriends and their inability to make any damage. Perhaps I should spoil them with my agressiveness and then send them back to their lazy boys. See them get addicted to my disease and then denie them of my hands. They would get their skirts shorter and their perfume sweter just to convince me to hurt them a little more. And I would forbid them to show any joy, only after I’m exausted, sweaty, slowly carressing their soft long hair with my scared fingers, their delicated hands lied on my chest after I took all their breath away and never to give it back. In a way to breath a little bit they would have to come for me, and I’ll wait untill they are about to pass out. Because I only offer pain. A kind of pain to hurt their minds and souls, to scar their bodies for life. For I am sick, for it’s the same pain I feel.

I drown in suffering and as far as my imagination goes I’ll take ever single one of them with me. All of us drowned in dispair, craving to reach the surface. Sad, because we never will.

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