Holding Place for Sadistic Excess (randomtruth.net/blog)

There is a beauty in how she sweeps over me.  A cool breeze that brings with it the fall of a flaming sky and the blossoming of an evening flower.  She is the one who tenders the flame and extinguishes it when it grows too great, and feeds it when the flame lulls to a small blue flicker of life.

It is no wonder that she is desired, the waters that wrap around her form are laden with the blood of the fallen and the first frost of winter.  My breath is a puff of white air in the cool caverns of her lungs, the bones, weighted like stalactites to pierce the heart of me.

Skewer me, that perhaps I can feel something again that doesn’t resemble pain and kill the shape that renders the god infertile – trapped inside its shell.  That I am mighty is sung inside my ear like a siren, echoing inside my head.  I hold the conch and bellow out noise that would protest its subtle message and am drowned by her roar.

Rise. I hear the demand.  Rise! I respond like a wounded, enraged animal, fighting, snapping, snarling.  My hands rip, rend, tear and my skin is torn away.  I feel my back split, am wordless in the agony.  Mute.  Silenced.

Still, I fight.  And when finally the keeper looks upon me, her eyes ablaze, I am incinerated by heat, my flesh melted off, the acrid smell of burning skin seizes my lungs.  The ash that blackens the sky is my prison.

Rise.