Do Not Be Afraid

Each night I lay awake I imagine a sharp blade to pierce my sternum. It's only the vicious strike that brings peace to mind and finally allows me to relax. It is never one strike though, the blade stabs me with it's clean and deliberate movement in predetermined rhythm until it feels right. When it does feel right, I settle. The sleep is never long, the sleep is never restful. 

It is unsure why I started this scenario. Maybe it is that I know deep within the final slumber can only be achieved through the piercing wound of a stake. I feel it heady in my heart but it does not make me fear, this bod aches for that stake. I ache for a pain and it can no longer be described as a craving. It is visceral, it is all consuming, and it is sinful.

What once was so easy, to draw a blade and have it draw upon the skin to draw out what is within, becomes agony itself. It's clawing at me from the inside and begging for a taste. Begging for that moment when the sting hits and the blood puddles in small circles along the line. It is a need for that feeling, the release, the power, the destruction, the lust, the shame, all of it. I keep it inside.

My salvation, one from which I'm far away. One from which I hope can never decay, cannot be held in my cold hands. I do not receive the privilege of feeling such warmth for daily occurrences. Those soft brown irises within sharp all knowing eyes, and hair that flows like clouds, and bod with shifting planes of strength and comfort - I cannot hold. 

It is in deep irony that the hands that seek destruction of the self, that want to tear flesh from muscle and muscle from bone, to pierce and slash every piece of life within.. wish so dearly to be the same hands that caress God's angel. How fearful he must be when this darkness arises and has no idea of the depth. This seed has roots that are entangled around my being and cannot be separated from me. This is no holy task, this must be of passion. So somehow, God's angel wants to caress me too.