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.
jan 00 | nov 99 | oct 99 | sep 99 | aug 99 | jul 99 | oct 98 | aug 96 | jul 96 | may-jun 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...
corrina page
there's no snow here. ever. a month of torture. holidays - who enjoys them anymore except for small children, and even then, do they really enjoy it? what is christmas except the failure of our families to give us what we want?i sit alone in my chair, curled up for warmth for there's never warmth in my cave. i can't remember the last time i spoke to someone. i've been sitting here watching the window, waiting for snow. for something, anything to fall out of the sky, and then i'll know i'm not alone. i fell out of the sky once and landed on a rooftop, toes splayed, arms out like i was flying. i slipped in through a window and found the room where the small child slept and all night i stood over her with my arms outstretched. pale hair, pale face, eyelashes that looked like they were covered with snow. or dust. her small chest sighing through the night. i was mesmerized by its rhythm, by her smallness.
if i could have put my arms down, i would have swallowed her up whole. instead, i watched her sleep and felt the tiredness in my soul like the dull ache in the arch of my foot.
toes splayed, arms out, i will fly out and leave her be.
january 17, 2000
i remember breaking eggs with my son. beating them with the whisk until
they were frothy like the foam on the mouths of mad men or rabid dogs. an overdose
of drugs sometimes makes you froth, or poison. the mouth which takes things in and
spits them out. sucks up blood and swallows it down. eats your flesh and bites your
wounds with its teeth, and licks between your legs with its tongue to warm the blood. my son was beautiful. visiting his grave, i bring him oils. sometimes a
book about the undead or a razor blade or doll without a head. his legs were thin and
muscular and never seemed to stop growing. a thick, moon shaped scar marred his
calf. i pushed him out the window once in my carelessness. and he forgave me. my body creates nothing at all. nothing fluid, nothing solid, nothing to hold, drink
or eat. even when aroused, i am wet with blood which only flows out of me and is not
of me. i make nothing, and consume everything. i am a vast black hole. january 22, 2000
walking the streets at night you forget that people watch. eyes down and
deep in thought, you forget that people watch. in the beginning i stalked the whores, the
homeless, other expendables. running them down, or bringing them home. sometimes i
still do - it reminds me being young and uncertain. people watch and people listen and
people find you out. the last hunt. i caught sight of a thin woman with long black hair - eyes dark,
skin smooth, build like mine. i took her home, smashed her jaw in with my foot, and gave
her my purse - identity. i don't how it went over. did anyone know? did everyone know?
i never looked back. i was far away and i was someone else. and she was dead.
twice over. january 23, 2000
death is like a magic talisman you hang onto for good luck or health or
success - something intangible but desirable. death is my talisman. something i will
never obtain, something i must wish hard for and pray for and long for. nothing is preserved that is beautiful after death. nothing physical anyway.
bodies are mashed and burned and cut for science. bodies are mangled in wrecks and
put back together for funerals. bodies smell and bloat and turn blue and green and black
and yellow. i kept a dead man in my basement once to watch him decompose. during
my daily visits, i sat and watched to try to see if i could see the decay happening
in front of my eyes. the smell is the strongest midday and mellows out in the evening.
in the mornings, the smell doesn't seem as strong, but it's stronger than the day before.
the stench gets absorbed in your clothes like smoke. walking around the house the
rest of the afternoon, i could smell him on me all day long. after six months i couldn't bring myself to go visit him anymore. i threw
some gasoline on him burned his body. ashes to ashes they say. only he didn't
turn into ashes. he was just a charred skeleton. i shoveled him into
a bag - first his head, his torso, then his arms and legs. small chunks of the whole he'd
once been. the smell of burned flesh was better than the rot. i slept in those clothes
for a week, then burned them, too.i read once that a women is ovulating when her
discharge is the consistency of egg yolk. what if my body discharges nothing at all?
what if everything within me is no thicker than blood? blood is only slightly thicker
than water. my child bearing years are over. nothing fluid in my body is not blood.
nothing fluid in my body came from me but was stolen in dark kisses and sometimes
murderous intent though i am not a murderer at heart. not always.
i burned my house down so no one would know.
and with it i burned alive a whore, a purse, and a suitcase full of clothes. there were
other things, but those were trivial.
i saw a dead bird once. perfectly formed, skeleton
intact. it was just lying on the sidewalk, almost like it was playing dead and not
really dead. and that's what i thought death was - the preservation of your perfect form
before decomposition began, and then you turned to dust. just like that.
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this file was last updated 06/15/02, 01:55 pm