I giggle and clutch the coldness the world is spinning I'll make it spin more. Twirl Twirl. Weeee. some thing warm constricts my movements it feels just like when he wanted-

(closer, I always asked for more and so he gave me more. Then He would ask for harder, and I would give him that. I would have given him everything I think I did. More, he always said, You always want.)

Trully the RockZtars had it right this whole being wrong thing is catchy. You can cotton on right quick. Pez dispence me some emptiness, little rainbow shapes. Oblivion is only two steps forword three thousand dollars in.

(It was always so much easier because he always pushed me where I needed to go. Even if he looked quite the shy quiet man, he was oh so loud, the neighbors always complained. He always told me what to do, where to put it, when to put it in. How fast how slow, how deep, how long. Control me, That's what I always said.)

The little eager beavers, starting without me, that's just bad manners. Let us wip 'em to learn a lesson. The wip cracks, the paddle slaps, the switch snaps. They all moan. A choir of deadly needles, each heading through me arm into my heart.

(With every moan I see his hips, pressing against mine. I feel his hands pushing my shoulders back against a tree, wall, door, floor. table, counter, shower wall. Of, course, I had to ruin it, I always do.)

I smile like chainlink fences, droop my head into a nice sticky mess. It doesnt feel right, but oh-hell. I'm too High in my Head to care. To care that this stomach has far to few muscles, or that This skin is far the wrong pigment. This doesn't even smell right. My eyes drift shut anyway.

(His stomach was always sticky after and I liked to lay my cheek against it until it dried. I liked to sleep feeling dirty and used. Like some cheap slut. Once I was even aloud to wear crimson lipstick. He was covered in it the next morning.)

Time for some heavy duties. All seven dwarves are gathered, All of them are at the control of Dopey, the ever silent fascist dictator. I will always submit to fairy tales. To the happy endings they offer. I went into a message parlor once, up in my head yet again. Because they promised a Happy ending. It wasn't. It was just messy and taxing. As all endings are.

(Sometimes, in a state of near-coheirsion I think to wonder why. Why I like the dwarves and sticky messy prostetuton. It's not so fun on the receiving end. But then the dwarves return and I remember:To make my mind fuzz as if I were not to think.)

I'll swallow all that these Fairy tale creatures give me and I'll only blush when they ask me my name and why I am doing this and what do they care? All they are are galant princes, a little lonely, a little desperate, a little bored. They don't come here to rescue me so why should they bother with me? I give them all the same answer: My name is just that, Mine, and you dont really care, I'm just a queen, I am no princess or Prince, I am but an old Dame in sparkling distress.

(He always chanted, chant, chant, oh! gasp. Liked to grab me and clasp tight, as if I would think he a rapist and try to fight back. Even when He would come in the middle of the night, half asleep half drunk half lonely half depressed I would bend myself properly, and I would prepare for his sickly attempt at spontaneous affection. I would always smile and welcome him in. Enfold him tightly and pulsate around, Untill he couldn't stand it.)

Here I am I say, Here I am. In some rich man's hotel bed, my mind suffused with dwarves, my body being filled by the highest bidder and I'm thinking of him. I know I said his name once. I was punished terribly. As this nice king said, I am his now. I am his now. Just know, You need to use me. After, like always my Prince tonight asks if my behind is bleading.

(Men always think they pound you too hard, as if just because you're submissive, you're fragile. That's why I liked him, he knew. He knew I was strong, strong stronger. He knew I had a limit and that I would stick to it always. He never worried or cockily asked after if I thought I would be able to walk tomorrow.)

Maybe in my fairy tale ending I would have met back up with him. He would have told me he loved me, and I would have told him I craved him. But no. Fairy tales are as fake as their hopes. Where is my Prince Damning? I say, raising my beautiful slit arm from the water, razor in weak fingers. I think of my Prince, and how he left me. Pitiful me. Pathetic, I am pathetic.

(Cuting one's own throat really isn't too difficult, just raise the blade, move your hand quick and deep, without hesitation. And then You knick an artery, bleed to death in a bath full of your own bodily fluid. Such a pretty, clean, neat looking liquid. Even with how disterbingly filthy it it.)