Interior Monologue

 

I tilt your head until you see yourself. I hold your head so you won’t wriggle away.

 

A piece of advice: Offer no resistance. It will hurt either way. You’ll see what you are capable of—maybe not too pretty a sight; you’ll see what you aren’t capable of—that’ll definitely be worse.

 

Worry not. We’ll work with whatever you’re capable of—

 

I don’t need to be a visionary to sense you’ve considered violence before. Ever thought about digging your blunt fingertips into someone’s features? Hard. Harder still. Until the skin bursts? … I thought so.—You had a specific face in mind as well? … Worry not. It’s not outrageous, it’s called contemplation. Worry not.

 

Another piece of advice: Never worry about anything until it’s too late. Until the damage is done, the pain caused, the finger burnt, the face distorted. Or—better even—never worry full stop. Worry doesn’t change facts. The damage will be done whether you have worried or not. Do you get the picture or do I need to elaborate? You can shiver in anticipation if you are so inclined but to worry will ruin your day.

Feel alive. Forget the consequences your actions might have, it’ll only stop you before you manage to work up the courage to act at all.

 

Maybe it’s my odor, maybe it drives people wild. I don’t wear perfume. I have a tomcat hidden inside. He leaves scratches on anything vital. He means no harm; he’s just scared to death in the darkness. Deeply disturbed by the sounds of life. The rushing, the gushing, the pumping. The skin breaks from time to time. I never see wounds but I do see the bruises. I bruise at the mere thought of a collision, you must know.

 

I’m careful not to worry. It’s not easy. It’s a fulltime job, in fact. I have to consider all possible outcomes of all possible situations to then indifferently shrug shoulders that weigh as much as an aircraft not airborne.—An aircraft always weighs the same, floating or not but that’s not the point I’m trying to make. Insert your brain please.   

How to never having to worry about pain: I’ll plant thoughts in your head and watch them grow out of your mouth. I’ll make sure you won’t hurt me with something I haven’t provided you with. I’ll give you words because I know you’d use words to fight me. You might have blown up some faces, severed a few pairs of balls. But never outside of dreams from which you wake covered in frightened sweat. If words are your weapon of choice, I’ll sell you ammunition; syllables born from my own imagination.

I like to be in control even of the sources of my pain. If you are in control at all times you never have to worry.

 

With gentle fingers will I peel away your skins until there’s nothing left but you. I will expose you. But I will be careful with what I find. Worry not.