Hunters Never Sleep

Genre: Dream horror/Chapstick, Knife, Magnet Prompt POV

Latex seats. Liquid dripping off the corners and to the floor where tarps live. I taste ashes and metal on my lips. It's a beautiful disaster. My eyes roll to the back of my head, overflown with noise. Over stimuli, head filled with bog water. My brain is separated by two rooms. One speaks, one pays with silence. Leather touches my fingernail less hands, bones with latex gloves. My pointed bones are worn by radio waves. Static that never sleeps. In my dream state it spells my fate in red, bodies fly around me in motion.

You'll become addicted to the steam rolling down the window. Grieving to become a commodity. Floral petals crush underneath your weight. A crunch for tomorrow's sorrow. Crisp petals burning shamelessly. Bodies squish beside you in the limo. Their thoughts are loud explosions in your eyes. Underrated.

In passages, their skin glow with mystic vibrations. You can't fake their indifference. They speak to you in rhythms. Smoke fills the ceiling, and powder on the mirrors. A tunnel with shapes that bend for the collective unknown. Nameless players of words, a flash bang that dies as the music slows. Time traveling with goosebumps engraved on the tops of our skin. Scarification of trauma, on a whim. We are what we are, that's why. Lust delivers its pledge. Chemical chalk textile in our gums. Rotted holes and heavy heads plunge the threshold. Our hands hold the nestled sweat as we pass the time. No one knows who we are.

In my purse I smother the strawberry chapstick over my dry lips. Chunks fall in excess. It's sloppy, my skin feels like it's made of wax. I can't feel the rugged terrains of my skin in the limo. It vomits its coarseness all over me. Hands touch my face, a lust unspoken. It feels cold in the high desert. Wind blowing out of control. We’re stuck in a metal tube. Circular metallic frames hug our existence to the sounds of violence. Those desired melodies play. A record for love's last kiss. Swollen orifices spread their legs.

Our forgotten pastures steal my breath. Words entombed behind my tongue. People wear their fallen crowns in company of their imperfections. Begging for platonic love, it's tried and true. Laughter's ethereal voice.

The car stops at the abandoned building and I'm carried by hands that don't belong to me. Air is tight around my throat, an invisible scarf that chokes. My forever, lives with yesterdays past. Hands reach for the sky, my blood without a statistic, an idealized surrender. Wolfs fur in sheepskin nestles into my captives armor. Prey, meat, flesh. Pray, copresence, oblivion. Scents flour my nose, unforgivable.

Traveling ambient sounds blur between the lines of metal and leather, peals inch closer. Eruptions live inside my body as it recoils, deadly. Give in, and let loose or be forgotten. The outside doesn't want us, but it can't live without us.

Deep blue eyes stare into mine, unchanged by the glow of their lamplight. It sways into a swing. Grip loose. Fingers genderfluid writes poetry, a song, a psalm for the dead. I'm elated with their sins, my teeth grin. Hands beneath me, in tow we travel, by the layers of the earth shattering at our toes. Voice full of grit. A gnawing on my ear, telling me what I want to hear.

They lead me to a corner and scurry off to the salon of extravagance. Playful terrors in neon lights. Devil's dance in their eyes. Slipping to the corner away from the crowd, I watch from all directions. Smoke blows through the side sockets of my eyes. I'm a fly who whispers for my tiny wings with no cease or desist. In the house made of rubber. Above and below. Bewildered madness holds me when no one else does, loves me the way no one else has and spins my world's globe without depravation.

DJs are their masters, they sing for the audience. Players without crowns. Godless, capital gains. Spirals insomniac. Atmospheric pressure, nose bleeding bright. Chasing their dragon, their high. Places without lows. They pray to Lust. Her mouth, her tongue, her blood.

Sweat bodies touches their lips, salt ignites. Sin that tastes good for the deserted. Our liberated manuscript. In the alley of thoughtless designs. Bodies drink their fill. Over, and over for the needle in the hay.

Slipping out of latex like shedding skin, my fluff wipes to the ankles. I feel the ground shift, as the sadists pile themselves to the dance floor. Searching for the vulnerable, the prey, the meat. Covered in cheap glow, you can't miss their desperate songs. Seeking sheep's meat like me. A dagger in the garter burns for their blood contract. Number one, two, three.

They pretend to be ghosts circling others in helpless states. Where the ground waves. Where it breathes. Never stopping the acid in living color.

Number one, two, three is trying to take my dreams. My surrealistic escapades. You'll see them everywhere, in daylight, fraudulent smiles behind their trad ties. Secret lives for secret pride.

Seconds pass between us as I pull them from the meat. Spit bubbles bridge where our circle cycles complete. Beneath their irises are worlds that peaked in childhood prime. Shame that only the liberated can find. In every crevice is a disease spoken with lies. I let the numbers touch the body, my curse, a poison within. I let them taste the sweat, a place they can't resist. We're connected now, we'll be together now.

I watch their softness wash away, floating in the streets. A pretend world for a future that never weeps. Deep in my chest I hold my breath. Inside out. Outside in. Lips sewn in fateful dreams. Lights glare on the pointer, my love, my drive, my lustful ambition. Closer, and closer, I feel their air drift from below me. Oxygen weaving with the jab of my blade. Precious meat in my hands, that organ neon grime. Number one, two, three fade from color. Shades turn pale florescent light. Gone are the days when we can scream.

Play for the damned, I say, because it's what I am.

My body is a battlefield. Contracts pile in. One, two, three pays their fill with silence. Tongue tied, tattooed receipts. A chime that always sings.

Traded my soul for Lust. She knows what she wants.

Sharp is the knife, sharp is my life.

[Stream of Consciousness POV from prompt Will Christopher Baer - it’s probably not as long as I would like it to be, but it was late last night stream of consciousness to get me out of this funk. ]