To Her | Miguel Pruné

"I like desperate men, men with broken teeth and broken minds... they are full of surprises and explosions. I also like vile women, drunk cursing bitches with loose stockings and sloppy mascara faces. I'm more interested in perverts than saints."

- Guts, Charles Bukowski

All we are, what we think we are, the images and conjurations that establish an I, all our most inner convictions of love, hate and dismay are taken away from us. When you've walked the streets and seen what I've seen. Felt the hard rain pouring down, heard the vicious specters jabbering about and whistled that nervous song along the alleyways. She had been my whore, my teacher. Like good rum intoxicating my waking perception, my blood. Sugar, spice and sex. I'll never be free of her, nor do I wanna be. [The price we pay] I should have raped you when we were alone in the rain. Too egoistic to accept another cock! I will kill him if I can muster! For monsters breathe within me! You are mine! And I am yours! Artificially of course. I’m just too greedy. And no vulva can replace your splendor. They are tedious. And I am so selfish. I want to swallow you alive. I’m an unknown. A vortex. An appetite. A mistake. A poor fool who must not be trusted. Just left behind. Caged in some basement with no light nor rum. Be merry elsewhere, I beg of you! I was but a necessary mistake! The lips I have tasted are clumsy and dull. Mere cattle pussies. Yet, I had to destroy you. My love! My life! My chain! For you had far too much ownership over me. The only way I know how to exist: To slay and flee. Guilt and transgressions.