Untold Readiness

Sitting in the corner, a white glow highlighting a multitude of unwelcome emotion. Seething anger burning holes through the screen; spitting acidic words onto the alkaline white. Blind rage being tapped rhythmically onto the unsuspecting keyboard. Eyes glare, tongue clicks and breaths become ragged. Ghosts of what could happen linger in the thickened, tense air. Scenarios of anguish and despair laced with an excitement which should be forbidden. Gunshots resound; a fear bursting through its steel encasing in an instant, throwing the whole mess on to a higher platform. A standing of a deeper consequence which can risk our most basic form.

Heat builds into an unyielding cesspit of passion and lust. Every thought adding to the discomfort and frustration. The smallest things setting the patterns into motion; tiny details making the story. Suddenly, a feud is in full progress; two essential parts of life battling it out for priority. Sex or violence. A red hot hatred burning through to my crotch, expanding the tension. Focus is lost for the briefest of seconds and everything fades away, the wash of white glare dims.

Guns strapped, fists smashed and bones snapped.

I fear the inevitable in so many ways. I am petrified of what I must do yet, I am ready. Things are falling into place, everything I have tried to hide is standing in the foreground awaiting my response. I have a lot to learn, I have insecurities to face and I have skills to obtain from others, but I am a hungry student. I know that the experience is reliant on me and me alone. I decide how it ends, if it ends. I decide if I end. I do not fear others, their power is nothing. I can handle the kicks and the bruises. I will bleed if I have to, but I will draw blood and leave marks of my own. I am merely afraid of my own stubbornness. My inability to walk away when beaten will be my downfall. Weapons will be drawn and danger will ring heavily around me. I will not run. The bells can be smashed as long as I can keep pushing against them; the cold trigger will press hotly against my quivering fingertips.

Fingers pulling, teeth grinding, and lips pressing.

I fear the inevitable; in the least frightened sense of the word. I need it. Frustrations can be brought to down to simple gestures and an unending battle for control. Strength relies on will power and ability. Blood, sweat and tears can only go so far. Hot skin presses together to create a mist of gratitude and longing, a withstanding force of its own. Blood rushes to the surface of the skin, scarlet desire rouging cheeks with steamed lust. I know what I have to do and once again I am ready. A new and very different fight awaits my tired mind and battered body. No longer do I hide from the underlying emotion behind the need of the softer trigger finger to touch me. I take it and make it mine, I keep it at bay visibly. Its damage eating me internally in a pain that caresses my every pore. Flames rising from my chest and breathing against her ear, whispering nothing and everything all at once. I can handle the absence, I can handle the tiny droplets of condensation gliding sensual lines along my torso; I will draw moisture too. I will get what I want and fight until the last second, until my last willing gasp. The tension gets deeper, a twisting creation tying everything it surrounds into a bass of absolute greed. Octaves later the battle enters a diminuendo and power is reinstated to the losing party. Satisfied fingertips press warmly against opposing palms, softly.

Sitting in a corner, a white light glaring into the face of nothing. A grin, a snarl of teeth and a seething hatred shooting through busy veins. A face, which can never be read honestly, is highlighted against the bland backdrop of indifference.