#DevilBehindTheWheel

So, what hurts the most than losing interest in something you once was passionate about? I loved it, alright. If maybe I still do, ain’t a question but a distress. In ways unimaginable I showed every dirt in my stained panties; for a moment I thought myself pure, impervious and nauseated by the ways of mortal men, at that time. I do not crown every jewel on my path, only except the ones I have eyes on. And hers, I set gaze upon that which would result into something I once deemed unfit for human existence, and the way I consumed it, was with absolute certainty that even though the lightening doesn’t strike the same place twice, I would be the only exception. I found love.

I found love in auspicious of spaces saddened by grief. I thought myself a hero. She was looking for distraction, something that could ward her mind off her miserable existence. She wasn’t living, just breathing. She needed a drug; a Morphine, dopamine, tetracycline, dichlorobenzene, paracetamol; just anything that could numb her pain. She wanted to die. She found me. She was an animal; a beast clothed in Human skin, her animal instincts fed off my blissful desires; she needed me temporarily. Sex and drugs, she enjoyed both of them, moaned, howled like a dog chained to the bed post during the night of the full moon, and cried through the same as though I was hurting her. Maybe I was. She wanted it. Maybe she was ashamed of me and felt pity for herself. How could I make her loathe herself to stay away from me when I worshipped her?

We danced like willowed tree branches who knew which way the wind blew. That in the end it never occurred to me that autumn was near and soon we would wither, she took a part of me for herself and damned me with mockery of memories that more than once I tried to suppress. But that’s what mortal men wants anyway. To dance with the devil and live like nothing ever happened. How could she dine with me to risk exposure to the same people who judged her and nearly executed her if it wasn’t for me. I give praise to myself while I can still write for in the end it’s her who lost me in a sequel of whimsical darkness, though willingly. She was afraid of heights, but on her last day she embraced it and took a fall to the ground. Everytime I breathe I see her on a free fall, smiling, she’s free.

Phill Ibsen
Master of Descriptions