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.

current | jan-feb 03 | dec 02 | nov 02 | oct/nov 01 | aug 01 | apr 01 | feb 01 | may 00 | apr 00
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

november 13, 1999

coal black hair flowed down his back, skin chalk pale, smooth, and cold. if i watch you will you know? how long before you turn and smell my heat, sense my heartbeat?

i race down the sidewalk, arms pumping. i can see my legs move up and down in a smooth mechanical motion. machines functioning in coordinated movements determined by chemistry and electricity. algorithms changing daily. my body amazes me. i feel its motion and its speed. i can run farther than i imagined i could. i've taken myself for granted.

his head turns slowly and i feel a rush of adrenaline. his eyes are black - all pupil. desire is almost palpable. turning, turning. i race past him, his hair brushes against me. my body is on fire.

november 14, 1999

in the future, there will be no past. only the here and now. then i will be able to enjoy both my mortality and immortality. then i'll be both innocent and murderous and i will be relieved.

now, time is linear. and we race to our deaths every day. except for me. i run and run and get no closer. i kill and kill and feed and feed and still no closer. death will not have me. i am alone.

if i sit in front, he will see me. but my eyes are closed. the room is hot and stuffy and breathing is difficult. garlic, like steam, surrounds me. i am drowsy. he lectures and i listen; halfheartedly, he looks in my direction, halfheartedly i pretend not to notice.

in the back is a woman with a grey dress. her buttons are undone. the man next to her notices and reaches a hand behind her. she is too intent on her pencil to notice. its point has gone dull and her notes seem scribbled. i am that woman before her death. she is my mother. i lie dormant beneath her skin.

november 15, 1999

if i fall will you catch me? the eternal question. tonight my finger tips bleed from clutching the pen so hard, from writing on the sandpaper, from scratching at my scars with pushpins and tacks. i cry only a little. but my heart swells and hates and wants to burst.

you sit back in your plush home far away from everything. i can't run. i drive home at night like dragging myself across broken glass and ice. it's cold where i live, but the sun shines outside. i want to be inside of you but you push me away. i'd rather lie with the corpses and sing to the dead, rubbing their fingers raw.

november 18, 1999

in my mother's womb. she keeps a small dresser for me. in it she has placed pieces of her past. pictures of my father, a locket from her mother, shredded newspaper clippings of dead people. there is hair and lint and small rodent droppings. there are pencils and pens, but no pads of paper. there are used straws and half eaten candies, unwrapped and covered in fuzz.

if i close my eyes, it'll go away. if i close my eyes, it'll go away. if i sing this song i'll be ok. two strawberries and a lime. a kiwi, a quarter, a nickel, a dime. momma's gonna have a really fine time.

sometimes i think there is more hair in this dresser than could even fit on top of my head. if i scrape real hard the wood comes off. i lick the paint, and suck my thumb. i hear her bellowing in pain, but i don't want to come out. i want to stay in here with my dresser full of shit and my mother's breath filling my lungs.

november 19, 1999

the sunlight is blinding, even with my eyes closed. i wake from my dream. my mother is dead. this dresser is full.

november 21, 1999

i watch a boy child sleep. i am forever watching the fragments of other people's lives. their dinners, their baths, their television watching. the parts of evenings, days, and mornings that seem the most insignificant. these arouse me. these pieces of humanity. mortality dictates these moments. i rarely feed, i rarely bathe, i never watch t.v. besides my hunger, i have no need for other things. instead i watch you in your homes and cars and workplaces. i watch you fuck your secretaries, your delivery men, your next door neighbors whose husbands and wives are busy with other folk. i watch you cheat and steal and lie and fuck over your dogs, your kids, your spouses. and it amuses me to no end. petty lives and small hearts. and i wait for you to die.

then i go home and masturbate in my tub. sitting in shallow water, pushing the water to splash between my legs. the warmth and fluidity like soft hands, gentle caresses. without you i would have nothing. but now i have a full heart and wet thighs and i laugh at your lunancy.

november 25, 1999

i cut myself today. getting naked in front of the mirror i saw my skin, too white, too smooth. razor blades litter my vanity for this purpose. i cut quickly and deep and watch it run red for a moment, smearing it with my fingers, spreading it over my belly and breasts, circling my knees with bloody spirals, trailing up my thighs, tracing the v of my pubic hair, spiraling again around my belly button, then my nipples. i taste the blood on my fingers, but it's not my blood and this is unsatisfactory.

when i bed down tonight after i have fed, i will sleep in bloodied sheets. the cut on my chest will sting a bit and feel raw. but i will wake and the blood will have dried, the cut will be healed, no scar will form, no pain will be left, no trace of the night before except for the sheets which i will promptly burn along with the body on my floor whose name i don't remember and whose face i do not know.

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