Blurry
I woke up today sweating and panting. Red eyes and shivering fingers. I couldn't hold the clock in my hand to see what time it was. I couldn't feel my toes; they were numb and cold.
Cold bread from the freezer and milk from the fridge to soothe my ailing stomach. It is late now, and every one has gone out of the house. What am I doing here all on my own? I have not been eating well; I can see all the bones on my fingers and the lines on my forehead. I am starving myself just because I can.
Images of naked sweaty men in my head. Doing the things that I want them to do, acting out the scenes that I want to see. Boys running around playing with one another, fucking one another, just the way I like it to be.
What is happening to me?
I remember a time not long ago when I could suppress my feral instincts and go about without a thought of sex. I could walk down a street of seemingly gorgeous naked men, and not get aroused. I didn't need manly affection, and didn't have to think about spare condoms in my pocket. I had the ability to block out my inherent need for masturbation and pornography. Prozac was just another word in the dictionary. I could ignore that oh-so-gorgeous man checking me out in the showers, and not want to hurt him with my violent fantasies.
But now I am no longer within that capacity to withhold myself from doing the things I like to do. I know that I am a very dangerous person when I let my hormones rule; look at all the acne on my face, doesn't it tell you something?
I am a dangerous boy.
Strepsils to soothe my ailing throat. Some gunk has made its way up my oesophagus and I can feel it sticking to the back of my mouth. No amount of regurgitating will get the gunk out of my system; the body just makes more and more of it, trying to drown me in my own fluids.
A quick phone call to my friend to tell him that I am in need of a coffee. He's not answering the phone; he must be busy with other affairs. I sink into the cushion and touch myself. I've forgotten how good it feels to have physical stimulation.
An apple from the fridge for Vitamin C and all that crap. Can't remember what the bloody vitamin does but I know it's gotta be good for me. The apple has gone stale. I remember buying it just two days before I left for Perth. It has been sitting in there for two weeks with all the other rotten veggies that my stupid housemates don't want to throw out.
The slam of the door gives me a shock. He's back, that pesky old room mate of mine. I can smell the evil scent of mud from his shoes. He’s been doing his thing again. Good for him.
I flip onto the weather forecast and I hear what I don't want to hear: cloudy skies and the possibility of rain in the evening. Just the right conditions to keep me in the bloody mood.
God I miss the sun in Perth.
Cold bread from the freezer and milk from the fridge to soothe my ailing stomach. It is late now, and every one has gone out of the house. What am I doing here all on my own? I have not been eating well; I can see all the bones on my fingers and the lines on my forehead. I am starving myself just because I can.
Images of naked sweaty men in my head. Doing the things that I want them to do, acting out the scenes that I want to see. Boys running around playing with one another, fucking one another, just the way I like it to be.
What is happening to me?
I remember a time not long ago when I could suppress my feral instincts and go about without a thought of sex. I could walk down a street of seemingly gorgeous naked men, and not get aroused. I didn't need manly affection, and didn't have to think about spare condoms in my pocket. I had the ability to block out my inherent need for masturbation and pornography. Prozac was just another word in the dictionary. I could ignore that oh-so-gorgeous man checking me out in the showers, and not want to hurt him with my violent fantasies.
But now I am no longer within that capacity to withhold myself from doing the things I like to do. I know that I am a very dangerous person when I let my hormones rule; look at all the acne on my face, doesn't it tell you something?
I am a dangerous boy.
Strepsils to soothe my ailing throat. Some gunk has made its way up my oesophagus and I can feel it sticking to the back of my mouth. No amount of regurgitating will get the gunk out of my system; the body just makes more and more of it, trying to drown me in my own fluids.
A quick phone call to my friend to tell him that I am in need of a coffee. He's not answering the phone; he must be busy with other affairs. I sink into the cushion and touch myself. I've forgotten how good it feels to have physical stimulation.
An apple from the fridge for Vitamin C and all that crap. Can't remember what the bloody vitamin does but I know it's gotta be good for me. The apple has gone stale. I remember buying it just two days before I left for Perth. It has been sitting in there for two weeks with all the other rotten veggies that my stupid housemates don't want to throw out.
The slam of the door gives me a shock. He's back, that pesky old room mate of mine. I can smell the evil scent of mud from his shoes. He’s been doing his thing again. Good for him.
I flip onto the weather forecast and I hear what I don't want to hear: cloudy skies and the possibility of rain in the evening. Just the right conditions to keep me in the bloody mood.
God I miss the sun in Perth.
Fell from the sky at 2:44 PM
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