corrina's diary

corrina page is a fictional character made up entirely in my imagination. any resemblance to real people, places, and/or things is completely coincidental and should be taken as such.

WARNING: The following may contain adult oriented material.


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with open arms and a smiling countenance i embrace you, awaiting the moment when i can plunge my canines into the soft flesh of your throat and initiate you into my world...

corrina page

<%=$p%>august 19, 2001 pm
<%=$p%>emotions muddled, fudgelike, thick and gooey. heady thoughts, rakish thoughts, piercing through the skin. hair falling in sheets, covering the shower drain, filling with dirty water. bitten nails, bloody fingers, eyes dried by staring, staring, staring. waiting wearing on my clothes. splotches dried, worn and peeling. excess of something unwanted.

<%=$p%>august 19, 2001 am
<%=$p%>in my dreams i hear myself echoing. i speak and you do not reply. i speak and there is no response. my words sound in my head, an endless din. and i wonder if there are any thoughts of me left in you, perhaps some residual twinges, a phantom limb of love, a hazy resemblance, the faintest reverberations of a quivering kiss bestowed with the purest love and deepest desire before it was battered and thrown.

<%=$p%>tick, tick, tick...and the damaged good repaired and a brand new vehicle sits where my heart used to be, waiting to be driven by you.

<%=$p%>august 18, 2001
<%=$p%>when i was a child, my father had a starburst shaped scar on his palm by his life line (or is it the love line?). it was a secret he never shared with me. rubbing it with my fingers distractedly i made up fantasies about it. pressing a finger deep into its center, i dreamed about it. sometimes i sucked on it like a nipple, scratched it with a nail, or tried to scrape it off his hand and take it for my own. <%=$p%>my father's scar was tough like him. when his hand was slightly closed, it looked like an angry puckered mouth that refused to open and spill its secrets, its private thoughts and i imagined that the scar was my father's head. i could fill half a page with everything i knew about my father, but the handwriting would have to be large and it wouldn't be of interest to anyone but me. <%=$p%>when he died i rubbed his palm all night for hours, as if by osmosis i could now read him as i'd never been able to before. but he was hard, even in death, and my hatred grew. his scar is now my heart.

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