By Jess Charle
I think less about fucking other people than I do about hugging him. Pathetic. I analyze the way our bodies press into each other. I ask myself if it’s common to step on someone’s foot when you hug them, or if that’s a sign of how close we were. I remember the resistance I felt when I pulled away. I tell myself I’m not the type to succumb to obsession, but I can still feel his hand pressing into the small of my back, hindering my exit – if only slightly.
I hate the woman he turns me into. Weak in the knees, heart fluttering, babbling about this and that, hands clammy with nervousness. My desire to touch him, even just to rest my hand on his shoulder, is overwhelming.
Love makes you so pathetic so I’m taking my dignity back. I went to his house. He let me in and I showed him, I showed the world that I am a man. That I am strong. That I am to be respected. I tore him in two like he tore at my insides. I ripped his wife like chicken meat, the white smooth skin resisting little to my hunting knife. His daughters were easy, huddled in the corner, crying out to their parents who will no longer respond.
I showed everyone that I am not pathetic, but that I am a power to fear. The screams of my victims echoed into the night and reminded everyone of my masculinity. The cops outside demand I put the gun down, that I should give myself up. They want to reform me, make me weak, make me less than. But I will show them, I will show all of them as I bathe in the power of my blood, red, thick, and strong.