Semi-automatic #2

This time of night, the pav­ing stones sing to no one and to every­one. They chant their drunken chor­uses and non­sense rhymes. I wish I was with them, into and without their sweaty tor­sos, singing mean­ing­less groans and inebri­ate anthems to the upper floors and the dis­tor­ted heav­ens, scud­ding fast and loose without purpose.

Come up here and look me in the eyes. Kiss me on the blood-spattered mouth and tell me that this will mend, this will under­stand, this will all make sense in the morn­ing. Punch me if I don’t tell you truths, if I don’t sense you sense­less. Oh, for­get it now. For­get it. That slap sounds sharp, but I need it, crave it.

Instead, I con­jure up names and num­bers and pack drills. Lists of blood types and venge­ful fantas­ies etched in con­crete and metal. Tor­tured anim­als and sick chil­dren on skew­ers. Pray if you no know better.

I suck on cen­ti­metres of skin, wish­ing for bones under­neath but only tast­ing juice and burn­ing. I devour souls so that my guts can stay full until morn­ing. I don’t dream, because dream­ing is weak­ness and shelves stuffed to the point of col­lapse with ama­teur psy­cho­logy. All I do is eat you alive. Eat me alive in return. Eat me alive. Eat.