by Bright Green
"My little girl scout; - Jack off Jill, "Girl Scout"
your mouth is getting sore.
Would you love me any less
if I hurt you any more?"
- Jack off Jill, "Girl Scout"
She was my everything but I told her she was nothing. She was one of those girls who never seem to loose that grade school innocence; butterflies in her hair and soft giggles from her lips. I wanted to kiss her, but only if her mouth was bleeding.
Though sado-masochistic, our relationship was rather innocent. Sex wasn't something I wanted from a girl so childlike. Intercourse was not something of great sensuality, as I couldn't penetrate her with my own skin. If we were not lusty, perhaps then we really were in love.
In love with pain and hatred and anger, in love with control and with bruises on pale skin. In love with glow stars and pink plastic razors. Butterfly hair clips and scabs. Pseudo-religion on humid nights. Worshiping me, loving my hate.
Yes, perhaps we were in love; maybe not with each other but with the things we did to each other. The way we managed to merge my red hatred with her crayon drawings of blue angels, clashing and swirling to create dull purple bruises shaped like stars.
I cut those stars from her arms with my eyes closed and I hung them from the walls of my mind, decorating my mentality with the pastel shades of the romance that has always been hidden in violence.
But that was in another lifetime; my mind's walls have since been wallpapered over and over, covering her up but never erasing her.
Sometimes, though, I pick the scabs from my mind to discover her. She bleeds into me, filling me with memories of hate and love and sadistic innocence.
We were young, we were sad. I fucked her over every day, slashed at her masochistic little heart until she was drowning in my pain.
I fucking loved it.
Our story was one of love, hate, violence. Perhaps I will exploit it for thousands of dollars. Perhaps my sincerity will make me a superstar with a cult following of closet-sadistic business men and masochistic little girls.
Most likely, though, we will be as lost on paper as we were in life.
Aaaand I make an attempt at a longer story. More will be coming.