Haunted by the Light

 

My Compulsion

I'd kiss your bleeding wounds, but what right does the man who gave those shreds have to cure? A loving embrace that melts your heart and makes you feel in a haven would be another option, but I'm sure my mere warmth would burn and scar your limbs even further.

I can smell the hate through the phone, and as I inhale I remember all those memories of dead love and burden. This would have been my excuse to give up restraint and spit out fire, burning all the attacks against me and illuminating your logic as wrong.

But I don't care about being right, my compulsion stems out of loyalty to the good times, the ones I wish would coat over all the fights, angry statements, and immature behavior.

However, like I said, who am I to heal your wounds, and I'm sure when air passes through and stings, it helps, because it gives you a tool to hate me and curse down every apology I give.

Not Afraid

I change my mind often. You could say I'm indecisive about a lot of things. My intentions are always pure, or at least, I can recognize what they are before I do something. But my goals and plans change because I often discover new ways of accomplishing what I want.

Speaking to an ex-girlfriend, if she could even be considered a once "girlfriend", I discovered a lot about myself. Insecurities, fears, and overall things that I am not pleased with myself on, or that I think could be done better. There's a good chance she is reading this, I think she follows this blog, but no matter. I have no intentions of contacting her again because relationships break, and if you try to put them back together, it can be solid, but glued on broken pieces. I don't want to disrupt her life any further, and I don't want her to do the same to me either.

"Very well, you have made your choice. I will never contact you again and will ignore all contact from you for the rest of my life. You were the perfect relationship I lost. I'm sorry for my mistakes, and take care of yourself."

That's all she needs to remember me by.

The list of goals and things I'd like to see in my life get sharper. Not necessarily longer, but more confirmed and focused in a sense. I don't want to go to God forsaken Florida. My life is just starting and there's no need for me to settle down with one person, or decide my fate.

I still have a strong desire to join the Marines but only for the personal self-pride of surviving bootcamp and combat action. That's a wrong way to enter, it should be out of patriotism, and heh, I'm the last one to be patriotic. I don't take pride in my race, my surroundings, or people I grew up with. I am myself, a wolf igniting in the shape of a Black Flame.

In simple terms, or tl;dr: I can survive Marine bootcamp without going to bootcamp. When I look at myself I see limitless potential. "What I do I do at will. Shooting from the hip, yeah, shoot to kill. Half a breath left on my deathbed, screaming "fuck that!"

From as early as people can remember me I have always been defiant. Moving out of my father's home as early as I could, the night before my 18th birthday was the ultimate symbol of independence and fierceness. That was a tattoo in itself saying "Übermensch", my Wolfsangel, the Sigil of Baphomet,  Lucifer's rebellious decent: the moment Fenrir bit the hand that feeds. My friends know that if I ever get into a fight that I am to lose in, even when I'm on the ground, bleeding and unable to move, I will still be screaming "fuck you" and spitting the opposition in the face.

In my dreams, death appears as a hooded teenager with a nightstick on a bike, and I get close to him, bring down his hood eloquently, and say close to his face close enough for a kiss: "fuck you."

Here is a poem I wrote almost a year and a half ago, and already I can feel the flames burning me into a sharper shape, with fangs even longer, and a stare to leave you in a catatonic state…

I am a Prelude

Metamorphosis shackled in guilt

Transparent

Like an iceberg of oil

This yew tree is waiting to be ignited.

This is a strife in blood and sweat,

to thaw my bruised palms,

in the warmth of the Black Flame.

Pink Suicide

I wrote this poem about a year ago...

Pink Suicide

Under lover's lane, she warms her cheek against my chest

and this pink spotlight grasps yet another cancer of mine.

The tide of chemical explosions and natural high parts

And until he's finished passing by,

I dare not display her lipstick on my collar.

There's notes between him and her,

which if I could grasp and read upon a piano,

would play melodies of, "regret, sin, and secrets."

Sometimes a note escapes my lips and I blush.

[to the girl with the pink highlights]

"Magenta glowing so bright it cuts, a veil of pink extending from my seclusion to your disaster. Such a pretty wreck. And like an angel you cast me into the depths of guilt and shame, but sanctified shall be your name, for cursing someone with scars like yours would be heresy and anathema…"

Unworthy of a Pink Rebirth

I'd ask you to crawl into my arms, but such grace cannot possibly survive in my rotting soul and corrupted mind. The flesh is a pornographic ruin, and mind has been reduced to complacent blur & lethargy.

Like a drink of water, this wreckage of mine requires renewal, and your temptation makes things even harder (without a pun intended). Stockings and heels, perfume and magic. Your trail leaves a pink veil to a sweeter morning. It's too bad your sugar would melt at the touch of my anathema fingers, and as such I'm left with memories of spoiled sex and outdated kisses.

Give me a lighter and fuel, let me start a holocaust and sacrifice to the Gods of the phrase "a better tomorrow." Each push-up leads me closer to being worthy of you, as does each medicated smile and medicinal conversation.

Romantic Gore

Jonathan is a sinister minister, and my religion is to please you. Ride with this pup, and I'll be arrested for another break-up. Such a bore: the two of you need some romantic gore. So invite this vampire in, and I'll devour your nectar as if in a cup...

Rambling encompassing, giving Dada a name with a sentiment I wish to express in my [ex] peer wince:

"She rolled her eyes back frenziedly to avoid seeing me, inside I didn't know if her or my hand was bleeding. Mutilated by a smoke of blonde, her fumes sharpened me to memories I've never gone (or wanted to). Infidelity is my mentality, discarding relationships like an untidy reaper. When the court sentenced me, I was forced to present their gravestone of a relationship through my hickey. My name is Jonathan, and I'll destroy your boyfriends."

In the spirit of Wilde, Madame, retort with wit, or if the night calls for Dada, resort to it.

Cheers. *raises cup of absinthe*

Nectar

Written at some point in high school.

The indifference,

fueled by her legs and blonde hair,

is my nectar juice.

I like to visit Jenna,

she makes the little boys cry.