The Devil she Craves

Imagine a sea of red roses. The colour of fury, of wrath with the scent of fresh coffee brewing on the Coffeemaker. The portmanteau of red-hot flames with minus zero freezing cold chills amassed in the colour of intimacy, of love, of sensuality.

She could feel both exquisite opposites and even though she felt the slim film that separated the two, she believed a wide black gulf swarming with vile apocalyptic blood-thirsty beasts ultimately separated these two completely independent worlds that she lived in simultaneously. Sometimes she felt so lonely she wished the Incubus that assaulted her soul during her sleep would materialize and sooth her already broken soul with its malevolent sexual attacks.

Sometimes amidst extreme violation, she would binge on the pain until the soreness finally transformed into a subtle clout of pleasure–pain. They say pain is addictive. It’s like contraband substance. It enters your blood stream and possesses you in ways that your whole existence bows in submission like a pack of wolves would in the presence of the alfa male.

Pain separates your mortal existence from your spirit. It’s the threshold that ushers you into the potent visceral realm. Reason amidst pandemonium is the lost cause her disoriented psyche sought. A little light, a glow is what her soul needed to survive the empty blackness her soul lurked in. She knew she could find the light somewhere buried in her memory but what she lacked was the spark. Long gone and buried deep in the heap of her life’s keepsake regrets was the will to dig deep and find that spark she so desperately needed right now. Like a lone ship lost in the tempest of a moonless night with a dishevelled captain in strange waters, she groped and grappled while her proverbial boat surfed the precarious deathly tides.

With all hope suspended and all footholds to life lost, she hangs on to the only thing that still reminded her of what it felt like to still have a beating heart-pain. Pain was the drug she abused. Pain was that force that still held her boat together even when the winds and waters battered it. The ghosts of her past that occasionally revisited her present and violated her dignity to levels that transcended extreme moral wickedness were the only reliable source of pain that she now so desperately depended on.

She knew that once the pain wore away with the tide at dawn, the sign and hope of life that the rising sun brought henceforth would be the death of her. So, she curled back in her destitution and wished that the demons of her sorrow would once again violet her and induce the pain she so evilly needed to stay alive in her death.