I loved her. For a time I worshipped her, but I always loved her. Heart and mind and soul, but never body. Never body. My eyes did much loving, but such loving would not long do. An appetite whetted cannot so easily be sated, and I’m afraid to admit that my feelings began to turn to hate once I saw that my advances and potential advances would always be rejected and deflected so carelessly. She was a goddess, and I was a lowly follower, offering meaningless sacrifices in her name.
As much as I’d loved her, I hate her twice more. Ten more. A score, a hundredfold. Ah, what does it matter! What I did is done and though I am undone it cannot be. It should never be. An ecstasy should never be recanted once fulfilled, but mine should be. It most certainly should be.
The depraved ramblings of a diseased mind. Diseased and rotting with filth, but alive. Alive and active and hungry. Always hungry, but sharper still. Sharp as a tack, sharp as a knife, sharp as the needle that plunges into my flesh and gives my mind rest at last.
But I should not speak of what I did. A confession is a repression and and I will surely sink into depression if I do that. Let me be jjubilantand rejoice, let my loving heart, mind, and soul rejoice for all of their wanting. Let me want until I want no more. Let my body jump and twist in agony for its having.
Wretched man that I am, I deserve no better.