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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jul 96 |
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...
i will shed my skin. except for the first year, i have done so every
august since my rebirth. it will be a painful month.
last night i
brought home another stranger. a homeless stranger with beautiful
eyes. his stench made me incredibly nauseaus, but i took him home
and bathed him carefully. i was very gentle and washed every crevice
and every crack with a soft soapy sponge. he watched me silently with
his large eyes, green and clear like a pond.
the water was
black when we were done and i filled the tub again with clean water
so i could continue rubbing him with the sponge. his skin was wrinkled
but he was finally clean. his eyes continued to watch. his cheeks
were hollow, and his body thin, but his hands were strong. through
his index finger i drew out his life. i left him lying in the tub
- the pink water, his clear eyes and large hands were a soothing sight
and i did not want to disturb his peace.
stifled. my skin is so dry. so dry. here it begins. the long drawn out
process. i don't know how i will be able to take this for the month.
somebody scratch me please.
a deadened sleepwalker all my life and now i bolt awake with a searing
in my heart. a salty mixture of sweat and tears covers my face and i
cough up dust across the bed. your arms have finally left me and i am
alone. now i shall live, awakened out of complacency, my safety net
here is a tale
i tell my child: deep in the hooded forest lies a man in wait. ebony
hair and skin like milk. his nails are long and pointed like mine.
he cannot control their growth. razor sharp like a predator's claws
- isn't that what they are after all?
like a fog, thick
and blinding, he descends on me with his teeth bared like a wolf and
his eyes large like two moons glaring through the night. i cannot
move for i'm hypnotized. hungry within and sleepy without, i fall
silently and heavily. he bares my chest with a slice of a finger through
the black cloth - i'm dressed for ritual. chanting softly, rhythmically,
he lulls me into deeper silence - is there such a thing? he wields
his hands like knives and slashes a wound across my chest, up between
the breasts - one half of an X. the other half is less painful and
complete. the blood that pours out of me covers the grass and soaks
my clothes. i lie with my eyes open and my heart bare, an echo in
my throat i cannot release.
here, i open my
blouse and show my child the scar. the tissue is swollen and raised
and looks more like a burn than a cut. the wound has long healed,
but it throbs like a heartbeat and i feel him within me. i am his
prisoner, his light. he is my god.
music has been
my escape the last few days. silence weighs like lead on me. like
a dead person's weight - heavy and unmoving. dear god, please don't
let me think. my mind wanders and i feel shadows creep into my brain.
when the sun sets i awake. when the sun rises i sleep like the dead
that fill my hollow body.
on the desk in
front of me sits a picture. a polaroid of the past. into this i stare
and pinch myself for i am dreaming. dementia in is my blood. passion
leaks like melting ice. and my veins are full of poison. the needle
in the crook of my arm looks like a sewing needle. i must sew up the
hole. i must sew up the gaping hole that hoards the souls of the past
and soon to be future. i cringe in fear. nothingness beckons me.
a blond haired
blue eyed baby. i dream of a blond haired blue eyed baby. and of drinking its
blood and eating its eyes. these last few days have been torturously long.
i sleep in a bed of dead skin and dream wicked dreams.
it has been hard for me to feed this month with my
skin in the condition it's in. shedding seems a long and arduous process. i have
had to resort to the barely living that reside and reek in dark alleys.
their bodies soaked with urine, feces caked between their legs, mouths filled with
the stench of rotten, decaying animals, like death.
in some ways, they are an ideal meal. but their blood makes me sick and weak
and it does not help my already attenuated position. i feed quickly and
brutally. their sickness makes me angry and violent. i shred their clothes with
my adamantine nails and tear their skin and flesh and prod for bones. i look for
shiny, wet bones, scraping away the meat. i just want to look. and maybe touch.
i don't mean to hurt them as much as i do.
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this file was last updated 06/15/02, 04:55 pm