[Product of a Primal Urge]: 826.Burning Sin

Burning Sin



I watched as the hand approached me, heading right for the bare skin of my arm. I knew it was going to hurt, I knew it was going to burn. But I was helpless to stop it. He was in need and it would be rude to pull away from his reach out. I knew he needed a connection even if it was detrimental to me. Who was I in the world if not a tool for others to use? The pain was my payment for my crime and I would withstand it as long as I could. I suppose when I went through enough penance the touch would burn more than just my skin and nerves. It would melt into my bone and soak into the marrow. Then fire would flow through my veins eating up each red and white blood cell. Then I would die and not have to endure the burn of touch.


My crime is worth it for I am woman. I took that apple, or pear, or whatever fruit was hanging on the tree. I snatched it like men snatch my skin. Both sins are for knowledge. Knowledge is the sin.


I wonder if you can fuck a sin away. I will try, I suppose.


He was grunting as he moved inside of me. I couldn’t feel it though, not really. All I could feel was the burn of his hand on my partially bared shoulder. Destruction is easy, a word or a laugh could crush him. Self-destruction is sweeter. It’s like copper blood on my tongue.


I can taste myself in my blood. I can taste the pain in my shoulder. I can taste the bitterness of my annoyance, the sweetness of my laughter. The tang of un-convention sits on the tip of my tongue. I want to eat it all.


I wonder what another’s blood tastes like. I wonder if the grunting fire above me tasted like nervousness and excitement- shame even. Shame was a good taste- salty. Would a man’s shame be saltier?


“Doesn’t it burn?” I whispered up at him. “Doesn’t my skin burn you? It should hurt. We could taste each other’s blood and share the burn on our tongues.”


The never heard me and they never tasted my blood. I want to find someone who will lap up the laughter and shame. I want to break my bone in half and spill the marrow into a man’s throat, to watch him squirm in pain as I burn his skin with mine.


Then, he would offer me his jaw bone and I would drink his pain. We would swallow together, tongues fighting against each other’s fire. We would lie fully naked with each other, curl into one another and let our skin burn together, melting us into one.


If his skin became mine would my sin be his? I can’t offer him the apple, pear, knowledge or we will both have to fuck our sins away. I don’t want to fuck him, whoever he is, I just want to burn together. A personal apocalypse. Death shall be his name and Death does not want to fuck. His skin burns, too. He feels the lives of others slipping away, dripping from clocks, sundials, leaking out seconds, minutes, and hours. The days are nothing to him- fucking is nothing to him. He sees too much, feels the same burn I feel.


His blood must be rich. I can imagine it, him, the crimson liquid supplying life to the carrier of death. If I could stick my hand to his bare chest and let my skin burn through, melting past the bone of his breastplate, and sink into the beating confines of his heart, I could pull my hand back and find it covered in his hot, rich blood. I could lick at each fingertip and taste a knowledge that a forbidden apple-pear could not give me. I would see more than just light and sunshine and feelings and emotions, it would be greater than the salt of shame. I would taste that velvet chocolate of Death.


I’ve tasted it once, you know. A man had reached out too far, taken too much from my skin, burned such an expanse of skin that Death had brushed my shoulder.


Cold burn, different burn, sweet and calming. Like water, icy water made to shock. Death felt like that. The sweetness of his apocalypse could coat my tongue and freeze my senses. My skin could burn into his and teach him despair. I would fall, a broken Ozymandius burned away by the little sand-fingers of men. They’ve built me up and torn me down and Death shall look on the great works and learn despair.


He’s intimate with the end, but does he know despair? Because I don’t fear Death- not like the others. I don’t welcome Death either- not in the same way. I yearn for his touch, for his cold. I want to bathe it in. I want to breathe him in. I want to drink his marrow.


Mistress, he’ll call me. He’ll hear me when I whisper into his ear. “Wash my burns, suckle the sin from my breasts, and carve out your heart for me to feast on.”


And he shall. He shall.