None of this is to/ about/ for anyone, I am just having a strange day. A creative day. God help us all...

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Death is empty, life is emptier. I didn't want to cut. i didn't need to. Good arguements to not do it, right? Yes. So did i refrain? No. Of course not. I went for it because I am not ready to leave the pain behind. I can't stand that feeling of happiness. It is not me. I don't even wish it was. I am empty of all emotion except for desire. Desire for many thing, most of which I don't even know about. The desire shows sometimes. The need. But most of the time it is a small flame buried deep within me. I can't smother it. I don't want to. If I did it would just to prove to myself, and the world, that I am nothing. All I have is my desire. All I am is my desire. Will you fufill it for me? Will you show me what I crave but to not yet know? Will you take this wanting for the unknown away? Can you also, please if it's not too much trouble, tell me what will happen after this desire is fufilled? Will I be full and satisfied and happy? Or will I be barren and wanting and sad? After the flame knows turps will I know life? Or I will I continue to know nill but this odd hybrid of living and death? Will I continue to hurt myself, and others, to get a taste of satisfaction? Or is there something more? Some big secret that is being kept from me. Teach me. Satisfy me. Love me. Show me the way.

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What is real, what is fake? I know that I'm fake, but you seem so real, so genuine. But then again, isn't that what people think of me? They all think that I am the real McCoy, but I know better. So maybe you aren't "real". Maybe noone's real. Maybe I'm real. Maybe fake is the only reality. Whatever way it goes, I want you to be real. I need you to be real. Be my reality. Please. Fake is one step from real. But real is miles from fake. I know fake, teach me real. Please. I know that love is real. I know that love is the only real thing I feel, and that is what I can give you. Love. Real love. At least I think it's real.

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Hate me, it's comforting. Hate is the language I speak. I am fluant in it. You seem to know a little bit about it yourself, but not quite enough. Hate is a language you have tabbled in, I will teach you everything. You will speak Hate to me like no one before. But the language of Hate does not only contain words, oh know, the gestures are just as importent. The back of your hand, the top of your knee, the tip of your shoe, all of these are of importence in the language of Hate. I think you're learning. Want to test your knowledge on me? Come on, isn't my jaw crying out to you? My cheek? My ribs? No? Well then, I guess you're just not good enough. I guess I will have to show you Hate's last lesson. You don't know what I am on about? I'll give you a clue. It involves me, you, the dead of night and 2 bullets. A lover shoots twice. Once for death, twice for pity. And you're my lover. That's why you should know the language of Hate. All of the others new it oh-so-well.

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May death come for me tonight. I sit it the fetal position in the corner of my room. It's so dark. I hear the breaking of glass from the room next door followed by "YOU STUPID, CLUMSY WHORE!!!" He'll be coming for me soon. I hate the waiting game. I know he'll be here when he's done with her. God! I wish it'd all just be over. I wish I was like the girls I read about who just leave their bodies, go to the corner and watch. Sure, it can't be a nice thing to watch, but it must be better than being. Tomorrow he'll be all nice and happy; a mirror image of what's to come tonight. When I was younger I'd scream at him to leave mummy alone. She'd scream go back to bed. For a long long time I had hope. I had hope that he'd leave her alone - that he'd leave me alone. But he never did. After a while I realized there was no point. I must have been about 11. The great age of realization. I realized that he was still going to hurt her and he was still going to fuck me. Next I went through a stage of thinking that if I made myself ugly he'd leave me alone, that he'd discard me. God! How I wanted to be discarded! So I starved myself and I covered myself in cuts and burns. It didn't work. He'd just called me stupid and done it all anyway. Pity I can't stop trying to make myself ugly now. Not that any of it's his fault. I don't blame him, he can't help it. I blame myself. Is hould be able to stop it. I should be strong enough. I should be uglier. I ask for it with the way I look, the way I dress, the way I act. I seduce him. That's what he told me. I should just sod off and die. But that'd only make things worse for mum. I love her and she can't help herself or me. I don't mind that she doesn't love me back, she can't. She has to love him completly or else he'll just get madder. I am so selfish. I want to die. Please let him kill me tonight, I have lived at his hands, it's only fitting that that is how I should die.

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Compared to life death must be sweet. Death must be water in the desert (don't drop it, it'll disolve into the sand). Death must be yellow in the gray (pretty yellow, not snot yellow). Death must be your first orgasm (and your second and your third...). Death must be your first breath (after all isn't it your last?). Death must be the first time you realize that you're completly and madly in love (forget everything that comes afterwards).

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Never, in my whole life have I seen anything so beautiful . The site of bright red blood on your soft, warm, white flesh. God it is beautiful. I put it there. I am so proud of me. You look so scared. Why are you so scared of beauty? You are beautiful, you always have been, but now your beauty is fit for the Gods. Your eyes, your wide green eyes are full of fear. Don't be scared, my love. Maybe you'd feel more comfortable if I losen the rope around those delicate wrists of yours, that graceful neck, those thin ankle. No, I don't think I will. I like the control. I lick the blood slowly off the smooth, pale skin between your small, firm breasts. Mmmm... such a taste, it's almost rusty. Mmm... I want more. So once again I pick up that silver dagger (don't be afraid) and draw it along one of your ribs. It fills me with such esctasy to feel the tremmor of fear ripple through your body. God, this is so good! You strain against the chords holding you; it'll hurt less if you stay still, love. Then I lick the blood away. I want more and you have plenty to give. This time I am not so slow, not so delicate. I plunge the dagger deep into your sweet, muscled stomach then I latch onto the wound like a suckling baby. Is it just me or are you getting paler? I move my mouth away then I stab you again and again and again. You body convulses with the stabs. Then, all of a sudden, your breath is gone. I jump to my feet, the dagger falls to my side as my hands spring to my mouth. What have I done? I run and untie you, the chords that bound you fall to the floor and I rip your gag off, gathering your limp, mutilated body to my chest. What have I done? What have I done? Oh, God! What have I done?

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Ok, I am confused how this all got into my mind but OH WELL,

A very confuzzled Lauren

PS I am not a lesbian