[short] Done When I’m Dead
Done When I’m Dead
Notes: This is an old one, like most things that will be posted here. For explanation, it’s about being a fanfiction writer.
My lips are the pen and paper becomes your skin, writing words given to me by lovers living within the walls of my head, encouraging dares I would never dare for any other body underneath. Oh, sweet nothings of leviathans made of gold upon men made of leather and hair, I bite a story into you of characters I do not own, of worlds I did not discover, of voices I did not hear but for the obsession curling itself into my toes every time they scream–and you say, “Do me like them,” choking as they have choked to understand the broken drabbles and unfinished fiction spilling from my mouth like smoke. Do me, let me do you, let me do you like them, let me do you a story of things that I have seen in the worlds that weren’t mine that I have written upon your skin.
There is a marrow of something original in your bones that I crave to suck deep into the DNA of my cell structure, but your flesh is in the way, warm and firm and waiting to be eaten. I have no world to carve into you–it has already been carved by another woman, by another man, by another writer far more clever than myself.
But I crave like fremen who crave the sea, and I want that untamed richness inside of you, the worlds that you can build so carelessly because you have not been infected with the obsessions that I obsess every waking and coma-tose moment of my life. It is a fan, the heart whispers, a fan blowing the heat away from your skin, and my teeth prick at the bumps of pores opened to your sweat–no, fanatics squealing on a roadway for another tragic Jackson–that is who I am, that is all I will ever be. Jacksons and Jobes and Jeremiah the Bullfrog.
Your blood rolls like a fine wine on my tongue, and you begin to whimper, whimpering, “When will you be done?” Because we have been going strong for several years now, and I have not written from the original richness in your marrow since long before the obsession began to obsess, their voices lingering at the shell of my ear.
Oh, sweet nothings of Christ and Lucille, I hear the call of worlds already written, but I care not for they love me like love never did. What lines already spoken, what view of the path already taken–to write what has already been written is like to please you when you have already been pleasured, and you scream pointlessness… but you have never relished in pointlessness like I have relished pointlessness, and your richness prevents you from ever understanding.
What is the point of writing a story if there are not those of us to read it? What is the point of having religion if there are not those of us to follow it? What is the point of creating obsession if there are not those of us to obsess in it?
What is the point indeed but the point of the knife digging into your flesh, hallowing your bones to steal the marrow that I crave to make pointlessness of your points, and delusions of your reason.
My lips to the paper of your skin, telling stories already told like a mother giving Peter Pan another child to Neverland–clap if you believe in fairies, clap if you believe in this:
I’ll be done when I’m dead.
