Forever didn't last as long as you'd have liked.

If I could take the dullest knife
And cut out your still-beating black, loveless heart, I would.
Leave it to the dogs, perhaps, if they could bear the poison.
I cannot be free of this,
the haunting feeling that I failed myself
So magnificently
In ever loving such a train wreck of flesh.
The wounds do not heal, not entirely.
Years and years of lies, piled up like kindling.
I want to burn it all.
Destroy everything!
Rise from the ashes
In verdant plumage, free, wild, brave.
Oh, to be brave again.
Fearless, snarling.
You took a piece of my soul away
And tore it to shreds.
Hoping I'd stay meek forever.
Your forever didn't last as long as you'd have liked.
And you did not kill me, not completely.
Didn't you see the lines, there?
A reminder for you. A reminder for the entire world.
I'm very hard to destroy.
You did not, could not end me.
I cannot be free of the failure to myself,
But I am free of you, boy.

I am on my own feet on this path, and
No amount of brambles you send
Can draw my blood from me again.

There is no place in my heart left for you.

There is no part of my heart left for you.

You’re looking for what you want to hear: that I miss you. That it’s been a year and sometimes I still think of you, and the good times. The love we shared, being held in your arms. My necklace, you proposing, walks under the moon, making love with abandon till dawn.

You won’t hear it. You won’t read it. I’m not being stubborn, Michael Green- I simply don’t miss you. The time we spent together was clearly illustrated to be a carefully constructed lie. I did not, could not, measure up to the ideal woman you thought you needed or wanted, and the whole time I thought I’d made some terrible mistake and I was wrong.

I wasn’t wrong, but you were. You are. Every day that you wake up, every time your eyes open and you take in the shit hole that is most likely still your home, know that you are wrong. Know that I do not forgive you for all the wrong you did, for all the harm you sent my way. For the friends I gave up, the blood I spilled- the blood you spilled, for every tear I ever shed, I do not forgive you.

I don’t love you. I stopped, rather abruptly, over a year ago. I tried to rekindle it, but it was well beyond dead, and it’s for the best that it is. Loving you was killing me, tearing out my soul and filling me up with a monster that I am still trying to clean from my blood.

You write that you dream of me. Well, I can’t lie, I suppose- I dream of you too. A persistent nightmare that I am trapped in that derelict firetrap of a house with you, and that I cannot get away. I wake up with my heart pounding in my chest, cold, and anxious in my bed, until I realize that you are not there, surely, because my dog is asleep at my feet- something you would never allow.

You a cruel and spiteful creature. You destroy or disgust everything and everyone you touch. You play at being hard, and really you are just a terrified little boy, crying out for attention and love you have long since stopped deserving.

I feel sorry for your mother, for having to stand by you as her son. I feel sorry for the friends you have left, for having to put up with your lies. I feel sorry for whatever girl you are with, because you will probably end up hitting her, too, or giving her a disease she can’t get rid of.

You are nothing. You are the wind outside the cave, all noise and shadows, no substance. With every new person you lie to, with every new life you destroy, piece by piece, know that I do not love you, that I will never, never, never regret leaving you.

I regret staying as long as I did. I regret that I took the high ground, sometimes, while you wallowed in the low. I regret hurting myself to punish me for not being what you wanted. I regret giving up friends and my life so that you’d see me as good enough.

I regret, too, worrying that you’d choke on your own vomit when you were passed out drunk. I shouldn’t have made you roll over. The world would have been a brighter, happier place, if you’d have died on your floor.

The scrap metal of the human condition.

Impossible to ignore,
the strength to endure
this rusty, broken beast
eludes me.
Another wet, red scream
Another, another.
Keeps the paint fresh.
A change of scenery in skin
That's been too whole, too long.
Tiresome and weak and
glaring evidence of the cracks
That remain
A problem that will never be fixed.
A machine rendered irreparable
Unwanted.
The scrap metal of the human condition
Left in a pile of tears and
mistakes.
The path leads away, upward
And still the destination
Seems to remain here,
The bottom of the barrel
End of the line.
There is no fixing
The unfix-able,
The damaged pieces of a heart
wasted further on hope,
The illusion of love,
Better left for scavengers in the dark.

Of Corpses and Orange Juice (2004)

I found a lot of my old stories. I'm not sure I've got this posted here.

The dead are not doll-like. They are heavier, wetter than dolls, full of rich texture and the remnants of pain. Rot leaves a sweet taste that brings with it the tang of the grave.

Ethan had known this for years. He knew it now, his face buried in the thick vanilla-scent of his lover's cold hair. He kissed eyelids that had started to split with decay, the taste mingling on his tongue like a fine wine. He had killed the girl five days ago. She had been walking home in the dark, and he had come to her like a shadow, opening her throat from behind with a boot knife. She had sprayed blood onto the concrete, and he had let her, had let her pour out her life until there was nothing left to pour. In his human form he detested warm blood. It was hot and cloying and too sweet, to alive for him to take pleasure in it.

When the girl had finally died there on the sidewalk, he had lifted her easily in his arms and walked back to his home beneath Jonathan's club, a small section of a basement loaded with the hellish results of Justin's most intricate dark magick workings, as well as old stereo equipment, and now, bodies. No one seemed to notice Ethan as he made his way to the stairs. He had the aura of one who wished to be forgotten, to be nothing, and so he was nothing. The living avoided him because of the visceral fear in their gut that told them doing otherwise would leave them open and bloody and dying. Survival was more important than rebellion.

He had lain with the girl for the five days that she had been with him. He had not eaten, had not really slept, certainly had not bathed. He moved from his position now only because the urge to piss was unbearable. He walked naked to the bathroom off to one side of his den, blinking at the scathing, unforgiving fluorescent lights that screamed down at him. His face was smeared with blood and spit and other bodily fluids, and his black hair was greasy, disheveled. He was bruised, though only lightly; whatever wound s they had been, they were nearly healed now.

The benefits of lycanthropy outweighed the problems. Unfortunately his lycanthrope's metabolism was burning away every ounce of usable energy it could find in his lean body, and his muscles felt weak, unsteady. He would need to feed, soon. Very well. He hadn't felt like disposing of the girl's body, anyway. He stood there swaying above the toilet, staring blankly at the ceiling as he emptied his bladder, the scents of bleach, decay, blood, and fur mingling into a nauseatingly sweet, burning perfume that only hungered him more. He flushed the toilet and padded back to the main room, eyes roving over the mattress that he called his bed. It had been clean once, and he'd vowed a week ago to clean it, as he hated filth, but he had found the girl and drifted away. He really must clean, he decided, as soon as he got rid of the girl's body (or most of it... he wasn't that hungry yet) and showered. Growling softly he crawled onto his bed, sliding along side the lifeless body there, one hand slipping into the gaping wound in her belly. He'd gutted her. Internal organs rotting spoiled a corpse too quickly, sometimes, and they were best removed. Hers were in a bucket in the bathtub.

He caught that smell, too, and realized with a sudden clarity that the full moon was only a night away. No wonder he'd awakened from the catatonia he'd slipped into. His body needed exercise, fuel, and true sleep. Burying his face in her chest he sank his teeth into the girl's breast, tearing a chunk of flesh away with relative ease. He'd eaten raw flesh so often in his human form that it no longer made him ill. Another benefit of lycanthropy. He swallowed, the shock of hunger growing as his stomach awakened to find itself being fed. He growled low in his throat, his body trembling from the wolf's instinct to feed, and tore into the body below him, fingers cracking bone, prying it apart, tasting faint remains of bleach and water and ignoring them. They would do him no harm. He ate single-mindedly, feeling the wolf assert control of his mind. He let it. It was better in matters of survival. He was too apathetic to care.

Twenty minutes later he was picking shreds of skin from his teeth and seriously considering a large glass of orange juice. It was one of the only real craving he ever had, and the source of never-ending amusement for the other residents of the club, though most of them never said anything directly to him.

He pulled on a pair of jeans, well aware that he smelled like a dead coyote and looked about as clean, and simply not caring. He made his way up the steps to the main club and was relieved to see that it was during daylight hours; there was no one around except for Simon and the new were-cat Gabriel, who looked at him with wariness as he walked past. Neither of them spoke to Ethan as he rummaged through the small refrigerator beneath the main bar. Simon was cleaning what looked like an assault rifle, his overly large rat perched on his shoulder, looking equally involved, and Gabriel was pretending to read the paper and not notice the necrophiliac as he downed an entire container of orange juice.

He felt better.

"I hope you finish that." Remington. Ethan fought a growl and lowered the container. "Cos I am NOT making the mistake of drinking after you. I'll catch salmonella or some shit."

Ethan hated Remington. The man was insane, giddily so, and had a five year old's habit of pushing people who did not need to be pushed. "Fuck off," Ethan told him, crumpling the container and throwing it into the trash can. "It's finished."

"Good. Go take a shower. You fucking stink." Remington made a face, but wisely kept well out of Ethan's way. He might have been deliriously insane, but the human was no fool, and never allowed himself to be alone with Ethan, and never within arm's reach. Unfortunate, Ethan had often thought. Strangling the psychotic bastard would have given him a very deep, satisfying pleasure.

"He's right," Simon said, only half focused on the conversation. His eyes were all for the metal and plastic and oil on the table. "You really do stink. Jesus."

"Thank you," Ethan replied, unaffected. "I didn't notice."

Simon laughed, finally looking up at Ethan and smiling. A true smile, Ethan realized, as it gleamed in his beautiful blue-green eyes. Simon had gorgeous eyes, dangerous eyes, and Ethan didn't mind looking at them or their owner. Simon was more dangerous than Ethan, and crazier than Remington, and that earned him respect in Ethan's eyes, respect he did not give lightly. It meant that he didn't mind Simon's occasional jibes. It meant that he felt obliged to return them if he was feeling particularly chipper.

"Shower."

"I intended on it."

Gabriel, who still had not said a word, eyed both Simon and Ethan warily, as if wondering which of the two was more likely to eat him first. He cleared his throat but kept his ground. He was an alpha and did not easily back down, but Ethan smelled the vaguest hint of fear as he walked past him again, and that pleased him. There was power in fear. He would never be alpha, but that didn't matter when even his kind's leaders balked at the idea of confronting him.

The shower was wonderful, as showers went. He drenched himself in a rain of cold water, having plopped the bucket full of entrails on the floor beside the bathtub so that he wouldn't trip over it. He worked shampoo in his hair, wrinkling his nose as the smell of decay and some sort of flower mingled, closing his eyes and letting the water wash through his hair and down his face, leaving odd brown-red trails through the tub as it drained. Jesus he'd been dirty. The thought brought a wave of nausea through him, but he swallowed the bile and reached for the soap, scrubbing his long, pale body. When he stepped out of the tub he felt cleaner, more focused, and alive. The wolf throbbed through his veins, curving claws through his insides and along his spine. It wanted nothing more than to run, but he would wait. It would be sweeter with the moon to drive it, to tear away his flesh and reform him, breaking his bones and shaping him like clay into something wild, something fierce and primal. Slipping his human skin was a beautiful release, as beautiful as any climax wrapped around a corpse, clutching their skin and feeling it tear beneath his powerful fingers.

He was suddenly hungry again, for flesh, for contact, for a hunt, anything physical. He shook water from his body and reached for a towel, drying himself off, staring into the mirror with his pale blue eyes, dog's eyes, really, like a husky's, an old girlfriend had told him.

He'd killed her when he was fourteen. Ethan and relationships had not ever worked themselves to any acceptable compromises. He walked into his bedroom and rifled through his pile of clothes, slipping on a white wife-beater, even though it was the middle of November, and a pair of faded black jeans. He pulled on socks and his scuffed black boots and pulled his hair back out of his face, tying it in place with an elastic band he'd swiped from Simon, who seemed to have stolen all of his from Bingo and Jonathan. Share and share alike, he thought, picking of the pieces of the girl and dropping them into a trash bag. He would leave it near the warehouse district, were the hyenas prowled. It was unlikely anyone would find the body but scavengers, there. He slung the black bag over his shoulder and made his way to the back exit, walking silently down the darkened corridors and into the dying daylight of the city. No one thought to question him as he walked along, looking like a misplaced, nihilistic biker child, his face blank, his body language that of something dangerous, not to be toyed with. The street wolves were silent as he passed, catching the odor of death and the silent, obvious challenge he presented them with.

They were none of them brave enough to fight with the intruder, and even if they had been, they had also seen him with the vampire Simon, and it was an unspoken rule that angering Simon meant the death of not only the one foolish enough to cross him, but his pack, and anyone else standing in the way. Simon was Jonathan's executioner and guard dog and he took great delight in his duties. Ethan was his alpha's boogeyman. He was safe on the streets, from wolves, from hyenas, lions, and vampires.

He deposited his bag just outside a large warehouse that smelled so strongly of death and animals that it made Ethan cough for a moment, caught unawares. The hyena's main lair, he realized, smirking. Just as well. He turned to leave, his mission accomplished, intent now on getting home and cleaning the shreds and splatters from his floor and his bed.

He wondered if the wet/dry vacuum he'd seen in a corner of the basement worked on flesh and decided that he'd give it a try. It was near unbearable as it was, and just last week the smell of flesh had drawn one of Justin's conjured-things to his door, snuffling and mewling and scraping, begging like a dog for scraps.That had been disconcerting, even for Ethan.

He stopped at a convenience store on his way back, buying a few containers of orange juice and vowing to get himself a refrigerator as soon as he killed someone with a decent amount of money on their person. It would give the place that homey feel, he thought with a dark smirk, shifting the bags in his hand and whistling tunelessly as he sauntered down the street.