I don’t remember the drive,  but I remember the feeling of being driven somewhere.

I dont remember looking out across the river, but I remember her smashing my head against the rocks.

I remember being dragged towards the black water.

And I remember waking up with her arms wrapped around my waist. My dried blood strategically burried underneath her fingernails.
Crying and apologizing.
Not for what happened, but sorry that she couldn’t finish.
And I spattered an apology through my torn lips as well.
For the latter.

Fuck you, (name removed)
Now I have to start all over.

What a tedious task it is to find such women that lack just the right amount of chemical compounds in their pretty little minds.

Because any less of a lover would be much too unimpressive, and not as horribly alluring.  And anything beyond this type of psychosis would be too far gone.

What a strange burden is it when you have the unfortunate capacity to intelectualize such a thing.
But I truely find it hard to conceive a more passionate type of rapture than to fall victim to one another’s relentless talons. The same ones that retract and bring you great warmth you by day, rip you limb from limb at night.

These are the singular types of encounters that could only happen once in a lifetime since, through their insufferable dismantling, either one of us dies, or all essential pieces needed to ever properly comprehend such endeavors again die along with it.

And then we are too far gone.

But tonight we both know exactly what it is we’re doing.

She arrives at 7p.m.
And I know she brings a knife.

…and my mouth waters.