An Indulgent Unhappy Birthday

Someone call an ambulance, cos there's going to be a (self-inflicted) accident...

The writer in me wants to write something I'm not capable of so the wrong area of my brain is taking command -- FUCK! Well, if that's how they play, I guess we'll just live with it, since we're unwilling to do anything else. Around the world, I guess. Can't be responsible for anyone else's problems though, so I suppose I'd better mind what I say, because I'm not going to bore my responsibility on you. I don't want the trouble of the world on my arms, so I'll keep it for myself.

I ache. I listen. I feel. Revulsion could come so fast, but then again, so could pleasure unimaginable. There's sensation. Fixation. The one on whose arm I took. She would be mine but I can not have any, cos I won't. I can't. I try and I can't.

It's a curse that I love so much and love so little that I feel that love is my only salvation only because it's the one thing I truly do not have that cannot be gained, learned or taken.