Rot Peddler

Metal sculpture of an alien with fingers raised up by face

Cool as fuck alien

Tell me if I am. Or I will continue to speak.

Am I done?

I don't know what to say anymore. Or if I should anything at all.

Paraffin angel, silhouetted by stars. Your heart lies amongst the nothing, a name burnt in gaps between. Exact as much of the ceaseless as you need to chart against the ending you've ignited. A candle only burns so long.

v has come to

appetite and starvation

And yes this is yuri

Werewolf that has abandoned her autonomy long ago. A reflection of her pain, she grafts identity to perpetually twisted flesh. She greets each new change as old friends, met for the first and last time. She doesn't know what she was and stopped caring. She doesn't recognize herself in the mirror.

Vampire who has lost the self that danced along with her in reflections and tries to map out the changes of her body from her flawed vantage, measuring her skin different each time she compares. She wonders just how much of her bears originality, compared to the person that she thinks she sees now.

dog

people forget that Obama took away your Newport Gokus

Colima Spider Vessel, c. 200 BCE-600 CE, National Museum of Anthropology, Mexico City.

dead girl dancing

used the wrong words multiple times and posted i'm, as the kids say, utterly chopped </3

If I could make that change, could you? If I could tear the wires from my nature, could you? If you watched my birth yet still scorned the person I was before then, could you? Would you? Would you want to be me? I certainly didn't, and that time passed. The me that you knew is gone. Like you.

And this wasn't any better, was it? You shunned my new consciousness with a deeper despair than before. I could tell this time. I knew. I had FELT it. You measure out your disgust with such structure it feels robotic. And it would be then that I hate machines like you.

I meditated through my pain on the obscene conception, watching over my birthing form as it rent itself free of a husk. I was dirty, immoral, volatile, and imperfect. I was what you saw in me. The gaps in what you hated bore a disgusting idea, now given flesh just like yours. I hate metal. Do you?

So I waited for your sun to hide itself and conducted my dismantling. When I couldn't be seen I had fostered the same contentment for steel you had allowed yourself to define my own processes with. You sent me into disrepair, one which I had no choice but to fix. How I hate machines, just like you.

And a time came that I too hated machines. I would see my circuitry and despise what I had been made to be. You had turned my programming, shifted what I could be to what I wanted to be. I want to be. You. Like you.

I would watch you sing, choking on sparks of wires tightening along me just so I may be more like you. How beautiful the sound was compared to the clash of desperate metal. I rusted sitting in the sun with you, just so I may observe you. Just so I may track your decisions and emulate you.

To plug me in, to repair me, turn me off and on, to damage me, you measured what my existence was and ruled out a definition for how I could live by the margins of your confusing and adversarial being. That I could only be alive, truly alive! Like you. That I could learn to be man, like you.

I took solace in the sound of metal, humming along to the chirps of each step as I marched towards my planned expiration. Everything functioned then. But you. You hated machines. You feared what I was and kept me out, sickened by my capacity to need. And all I had to offer in return was envy.

My fingertips trail along the weathered metal, choreographed along each ridge to the machine's unresponsive composition. Fingers find walls and I force them open to expose the dull voice of its wires, a laborious cantata. But now the machine can hear me, loosing proving screams for each wire torn.

A screenshot from Metal Gear Solid: The Twin Snakes

That part of me isn't here anymore. I've less now; They're a little part of me now. They all are. Though I'm becoming as much the voice in my head as the words it speaks. Would you let them decay? You try so desperately to get away, silent and wrapped in my wires. I want you dead. I always did.

You've been here before.

Justified, though all the more intended for it. It carries a recognizable pain with it, shared as the reflection shares a mirror. Does your anger bear a target? Wield a source? Misguided, lashing out recklessly and biting any hands that stray near enough. Confused, wondering where the food has gone.

I see future grief in the headlights, dreading what may be as I steal it to create something worse. As it passes, ambition. And so when I watch the break lights trail on, I wonder to myself if a thing feared can ever truly be lost.

It was no failure on her part, I was there all along. I just couldn't have seen it, as blinded as the sun had left me. How beautiful an efegy I must have made in mistaking that, in standing alone with my arms raised with the night and clueless to the piece of me I believed in, against her judgment.